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whitedragoncoranth · 2 months ago

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Rocket/Human Fluff 4

Skyclad and furclad beneath the covers of the bed in our apartment… I became aware of Rocket crying, silently, his body shaking as he kneaded my chest with his paws. "Aw, hey, li'l man, hey…" I soothed. "What's going on?"

Rocket scooched forward, undignified, nuzzled into the crook of my neck. "I… I dunno…!" he sobbed. "Jus'… I… I never thought I'd have this. You. M'person. Looks after me, washes me in the shower, keeps me clean, an' fed' an s-safe, an' warm an'…" He squeezed his crimson eyes shut, sobbed again, unable to stop the tears, and I stroked his neck and down his back.

"I ain't supposed to be this safe!" he sobbed. "I ain't--somethin'll happen to take it all away, it always does, an'…" He broke and wept, silently, and I just held him, soft- stroking his thickening fur.

I didn’t rush him. Didn’t hush him either—just let the sobs shake through him as I kept my hand moving, slow and steady down his back, over the tense knots of muscle and matted-down fur from where he’d curled so tight into himself. Each stroke said I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.

Eventually, the trembling softened. His breathing slowed, catching every so often with a hiccup or a tiny snuffle. He kept his face tucked into my neck like it was the only safe place in the universe, and maybe for him, it was.

"I’m scared," he mumbled, muffled against my skin. "It ain’t fair. Gettin’ somethin’ good, real good... makes it worse. Like it’s painted with a timer on it."

"I know," I whispered. "But it’s not goin’ anywhere. Not if I have anything to say about it."

He pulled back just enough to look at me—red eyes rimmed and wet, ears drooping, whiskers twitching. "Promise?"

I met his gaze, serious as I’d ever been. "I promise, Rocket. You’re not a burden. You’re not gonna be left behind. Not again."

He swallowed hard, his lip quivering. Then he climbed up just a little, nose brushing mine, and let out a shaky breath. “Y-you keep sayin’ that... an’ one day I might even believe it.”

I smiled faintly and brought a hand up to cup his cheek. “That’s okay. I’ll keep sayin’ it 'til you do.”

He laid his head down on my chest again, tighter this time, as if anchoring himself. I felt the tension start to melt out of him, like he was finally letting his body accept the safety his heart didn’t quite trust yet. I kept stroking his back, and eventually his breathing evened out, quiet and slow.

And in the soft dark of our Quarters, with the blanket barely disturbed and his weight warm against me, I didn’t say another word. I just held him like a vow.

* * *

When I woke, it was to the faint warmth of sun filtering in through the slats of the blind—dim, soft light casting faint gold across the bedding. Rocket was still curled against me, one paw resting on my chest, his head tucked under my chin, breath warm and even. He hadn’t moved all night.

I didn’t, either.

I stayed still, just watching him. His face was relaxed now, mouth slightly open, ears twitching faintly as if chasing a dream. There was a little bit of dried tear-track on his cheek fur. My hand found its way to his back again, stroking slowly. He stirred but didn’t wake.

When he did finally blink awake, it was slow. His nose scrunched first, ears flicking, then those red eyes cracked open just a little. He blinked groggily at me and then... froze. I could see it—the moment it hit him where he was, who he was with, what he'd said last night.

His paw twitched like he was going to pull back, but I gently caught it with my fingers.

"Mornin', li'l man," I murmured, voice still raspy from sleep. “Still here.”

Rocket didn’t answer for a second. His mouth opened, then shut, then he huffed through his nose, rubbing at his eyes with the back of one paw.

“Did I... cry on you?”

“You did,” I said, simply. “And I held you. Like I said I would.”

He looked away, ears folding back. “Ugh. Great. Real dignified.”

“You were grieving,” I said softly. “Not weak. Not pathetic. Just... human. Well. You know what I mean.”

He snorted—soft, not biting. “Yeah, I know.”

We lay there a little longer. Then, finally, he scooched up and rubbed his face against my shirt.

“I feel... stupidly better,” he muttered. “Like I got junk squeezed outta my chest.”

I chuckled, low. “That’s what crying’s for.”

Rocket stretched his limbs slowly, wincing a little, then rolled off me and flopped beside me on the bed like a lazy cat. He yawned, rubbed his face again, and muttered, “Don’t tell Quill. Or Drax. Or... anybody. This stays between us.”

“It’s yours to share or not,” I said. “But you never have to pretend with me.”

Rocket went quiet for a while. Then, without looking at me, he said, “...Thanks. For bein’ here. Even when I’m a mess.”

I reached over and ruffled his fur gently. “Especially when you’re a mess.”

That finally got a little smirk from him. “Yeah, okay. That’s fair.”

* * *

The water was already running, warm and steamy, fogging the mirror in our tiny washroom. Rocket sat on the small tiled bench beneath the showerhead, hunched a little but still, trusting. His ears flicked at the sound of my footsteps, but he didn’t look up. He just waited.

I knelt beside him, gently guided him to turn, and reached for the soap.

The first lather was always the loosening pass—gentle circles through the dense fur of his shoulders, back, sides. I worked slowly, methodically, letting the warm water trickle through his coat while I massaged in the suds. Rocket made a tiny sound—not a word, more like a breath caught halfway to a sigh.

When I rinsed the first pass away, he shuddered slightly, like the soap carried more than just dirt with it.

Then again—more lather, more care, more slow, soothing pressure as I worked it down his spine, behind his ears, under his arms. He tipped forward just a little, head bowed, eyes half-lidded. He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” I murmured, my fingers sliding beneath his chin to lift his face as I gently soaped his cheeks and the softer fur of his throat.

He shook his head—barely. “No. Just… don’t stop.”

I didn’t.

The third lather was slower still. This was ritual, now. His tail curled slightly around my leg as I washed along it, down to the tip, careful not to tug. He’d gone quiet, completely relaxed, letting me move his limbs gently to wash under arms, behind knees, between toes.

“Rocket…” I said softly, pausing to look at him.

He blinked slowly, eyes glassy. “M’head’s floatin’,” he mumbled, voice thick. “Like m’body’s gone.”

“Still here,” I said, brushing my thumb along the fine lines of his jaw. “Every inch of you.”

He looked up at me then. And even though he didn’t say anything, that gaze was loaded—soft and glassy and stunned all at once. Like part of him couldn’t quite believe this was real, and another part didn’t want to believe it, just in case it vanished.

So I kissed his forehead—just once, lingering.

“I got you,” I whispered.

He made a broken little sound in the back of his throat and leaned forward, letting his head rest against my chest, still under the warm stream of water.

And I stayed there with him, holding him under the spray, as the suds ran down and the silence said more than words ever could.

* * *

The towel was thick, soft, and warm from the heated rack. I bundled Rocket in it the moment we stepped out of the shower, his soaked fur still clinging to him in tufts. He didn’t fight it—just let me wrap him up like something fragile, head down, breath trembling.

I knelt before him again, rubbing gently, methodically. Not too fast, not rough—just enough friction to dry, enough presence to reassure. His paws twitched every now and then, but he didn’t stop me. He couldn’t, not right now.

When I got to his ears, I was careful—cupping each one delicately in the towel, squeezing the moisture from the fine fur along the edges. He let out a tiny hum, almost a whimper, and I saw his jaw clench tight like he was trying to hold something back.

That’s when he spoke, voice a rough whisper breaking at the edges.

“D’ast it… wants you ta keep doin’ this… washin’ me in the shower…”

He sniffed hard, eyes shut.

“Never could do it proper in the Kyln and other places; hadda be quick, too many eyes, c-catcallin’, jeers…” He swallowed, voice hitching. “But… jus’ you an’ me in there, an’ you’re so soft, an’ gentle, an’ feels so good, an’ makes me feel so safe…”

He took a shaking breath, curled smaller in the towel as if trying to vanish into the warmth and the moment.

“…an’ it’s like you’re washin’ my flarkin’ soul. Washin’ away all the… the years an’ the pain…”

His voice cracked.

And then he was crying again, quieter this time, shoulders barely moving under the towel. No drama, no noise. Just the quiet heartbreak of someone finally allowing himself to be cared for after a lifetime of surviving.

I drew him close, pressing my forehead to his and wrapping the towel tighter around us both.

“Anytime you want, bud…” I whispered, voice hoarse, a tear slipping down my own cheek and sinking into his damp fur. I kissed the top of his head, held him tighter. “Anytime you want.”

We stayed there on the bathroom floor a while, wrapped in terry cloth and warm air, the soft sound of the fan above us the only witness.

And for once, there was nothing to fix. Nothing to run from. Only comfort. Only presence.

Only us.

* * *

The living room was dim, only the soft glow of the screen lighting the space. I’d thrown a big fleece blanket over the couch and settled us into it like a makeshift nest. Rocket lay half-on, half-against me, towel-dried but still faintly damp in places. His head rested just under my chin, tucked close to my chest where he could hear my heartbeat—steady, constant, his.

Some old quiet film played—nothing intense, just murmured dialogue and warm lighting. A slice-of-life kind of story, the kind with no explosions, no galaxy-threatening stakes. Just people. Just peace.

He gave a small yawn and curled tighter against me, his tail flicking once before draping over my thigh. My arm was around him, fingers idly brushing the back of his head, smoothing tufts that were still drying. His breathing was slower now, no longer hitching.

“Comfy?” I asked softly, my breath in his ear.

He gave a half-mumble, more vibration than word. “Mmhmm.”

A few more minutes passed before he shifted just enough to speak. “Y’know… this’s nice,” he whispered, like he didn’t want to disturb the calm. “No noise. No people. No creeps watchin’ from the next bunk over.”

“Just you and me,” I murmured.

He gave a faint nod, cheek still against my chest. “Think maybe I’d let ya do this forever,” he said, voice small but sure. “Even the dumb movies.”

I chuckled softly. “Even the black-and-white ones?”

“Mmf… even those.” His claws gently kneaded at my shirt, slow, rhythmic. “Cuz it means m’not alone.”

“You’ll never be alone again,” I promised, and kissed the top of his head again.

We stayed there in silence, the kind that wraps around you like a blanket. Onscreen, someone lit a candle and placed it in a window. A dog barked in the distance, then nothing.

Rocket let out one more breath—deep, quiet, and almost too soft to hear—and then I felt the full weight of him settle. He’d drifted off, completely, safely.

And I stayed with him, one hand resting over his back, the other stroking between his ears, holding him as the flickering light of the screen danced on the walls.

. . .

Later into the evening, the soft glow of twilight seeped through the curtains, painting the room in dusky purples and golds. The movie had long since ended—just quiet menu music looping now, low and forgotten. I hadn’t moved, didn’t dare. Rocket was still curled up against me, limp with sleep, his breathing slow and deep.

Eventually, he stirred.

Not much—just a twitch of his ear, a faint rustle as he nuzzled in closer and let out a small grunt. “Mmh… ‘m hungry,” he muttered, barely coherent.

I smiled and brushed a hand gently down his back. “You want me to cook, or do we raid the fridge together like raccoons in the night?”

That got a snort. “You say that like one of us ain’t a raccoon.”

“I say it with love,” I grinned. “And affection. And a complete willingness to share leftovers.”

He shifted slowly, stretching out with a wince and a soft pop of joints. “Ugh… slept weird. Back’s all stiff…”

“I’ll rub it out after we eat.”

Rocket looked up at me, eyes still a little glassy with post-nap haze. “You’re too damn good to me,” he said, gruff and soft at once.

“You deserve good,” I said simply, brushing a hand through the fur at his cheek.

He blinked, held the look a moment… then leaned in and bumped his head under my chin again. “Still ain’t used to hearin’ that.”

“Then I’ll just have to keep saying it until you are.”

Together, we slid off the couch, a slow and slightly tangled process of untucking ourselves from the blankets. Rocket padded barefoot ahead of me to the kitchen, tail flicking once as he climbed onto a stool. He looked smaller in the warm lamplight, still damp around the neck ruff, fur fluffed unevenly from our lazy drying.

I warmed up some soup—thick, hearty stuff—and toasted bread on the side. Nothing fancy, just comfort food. I set the bowl in front of him with a clink of the spoon and a folded napkin, and he gave me this look—half-surprised, half-wistful. The kind you give when you’re still not sure you’re allowed to have nice things.

He dunked a corner of bread into the soup and took a bite. “Flarkin’ hell,” he said around a mouthful. “Tastes like a real home.”

I sat beside him and raised my spoon. “That’s ‘cause it is.”

. . .

We each had a steaming bowl, split from the same can of Heinz Big'n'Chunky—Rocket’s choice, clearly—and the kitchen was filled with that unmistakable scent: meat, potatoes, veggies, all simmered together into something real and warm and honest.

Rocket sat on the counter now instead of the stool, legs swinging lazily, his tail curled neatly around the edge. He blew on a spoonful before tasting it, ears twitching with satisfaction.

“Mmmmf… stars above,” he mumbled, chewing slowly. “That’s the good d’astin’ stuff.”

“Figured you’d like it,” I said, dunking a chunk of crusty bread into my bowl. “Old faithful.”

“Y’know…” Rocket said between bites, “…back in the day? I’d’a killed for a whole can’a this. Warm. In a real kitchen. With someone who’d split it with me and not try to knife me for the rest.” He smirked, just a little. “Lookit me now.”

“You earned it,” I said simply.

He gave me a sidelong glance, quiet for a few seconds. “Never thought I could.”

We didn’t say much after that—just the quiet clink of spoons and plates, the occasional contented hum from Rocket as he polished off every last drop, even scraping the bowl with the spoon for good measure. I handed him a napkin without saying anything, and he wiped his muzzle, eyes drooping a little.

“That was…” he yawned, wide and sharp-toothed, “…better’n any bar brawl. M’body’s all soft now.”

“Then let’s get you into bed, fuzzball,” I said, stacking the bowls. “I’ll rinse these after.”

He hopped down, still barefoot, still a little damp under the fluff—but warm and full and safe. I flipped off the kitchen light, and he waited for me in the hall, tail swishing slowly, a sleepy look on his face.

“Y’know…” he said as I caught up, “…this whole day? This whole thing? It’s the best flarkin’ day I’ve had in maybe my whole dumb life.”

I pulled him into a hug, right there in the hallway. “It’s not over yet.”

. . .

We padded down the short hallway together, the lights dim and golden. The kind of lighting that makes everything feel slower, softer. The bedroom was already turned down, one side of the quilt flipped back, warm air waiting beneath it.

Rocket yawned again, this time longer, arms stretching up high as he popped his shoulders and let out a low, content grunt. “Mmph. Yeah. That soup? Gonna knock me right out.”

He crawled into bed without hesitation, burrowing straight under the covers before popping his head and shoulders back out. I followed behind, flipping off the last lamp and climbing in beside him. As always, he gravitated close, wriggling into the crook of my side like he was built to fit there.

Blankets pulled up. My arm under his shoulders. One of his hands on my chest again, that quiet habit of his when he needed reassurance. His claws didn’t dig, they just… held.

“Comfy?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he mumbled. “M’gonna sleep like a flarkin’ kitten.”

I smiled, gently stroking his headfur, still slightly wild from the towel-drying earlier. “That’s the plan.”

He was quiet for a long moment, the rise and fall of his breath syncing with mine. Then, barely audible:

“Y’did good today.”

“Hm?”

“I mean it,” he said softly. “The shower. The soup. Just… bein’ here. Bein’ with me. It’s like my brain still don’t get it. Still waitin’ for it to be yanked away like always.”

I shifted, turning just enough to meet his eyes in the low light. “It won’t be. I’m not going anywhere.”

He blinked slowly. “Promise?”

“I swear it.”

He let out a shaky breath, and his whole body softened against me. “Don’t care how long it takes,” he whispered. “You keep washin’ me like that, keep holdin’ me like this, maybe one day I’ll believe it. Maybe.”

I kissed the side of his head, slow and soft. “Then I’ll keep doing it. Every day. Every night. For as long as it takes.”

There was no reply this time—just a deep exhale as Rocket finally let himself go limp, his weight heavy and trusting against me. His ears flicked once, and his grip on my shirt loosened into something more like a cuddle than a clench. His breathing slowed, deepened.

Sleep came to him like a tide.

And I stayed awake a little longer, holding him close, brushing fingers through his fluff, whispering a few more soft promises into the quiet.

Until sleep took me too, warm and full and safe—just like him.

. . .

The room was dark, the kind of darkness that only comes at night, when the quiet of everything around you feels almost too loud. Rocket woke slowly, instinctively rolling over in the bed, expecting to feel the comforting presence of me next to him. But instead, there was an empty space where I'd been.

He froze.

That instinct kicked in—a nervous twitch in his tail, his eyes snapping open, scanning the room. His heart started to thud a little harder in his chest. Was this a dream? A good dream? Or was it too good to be real?

The night was still, save for the occasional soft creak of the building. But then… there was a noise. A rustling, faint enough to be easy to ignore, but loud enough to catch his attention. It was coming from the kitchen.

That was all it took. His paws moved on instinct—straight to the drawer in the nightstand where his blaster rested, primed and ready. He slid it out quickly, the familiar weight of it cold and solid in his grip. He flicked the safety off, fingers trembling just slightly as he trained the barrel on the doorframe leading to the kitchen. His other paw held tight, ready to squeeze the trigger if anything moved in there.

His ears were perked, his breathing sharp and quick. Is it real? he wondered, unsure whether to believe that I could be gone or whether his mind was still trying to convince him something would take all this away. He couldn't let that happen.

Creeping cautiously, he stepped off the bed, keeping low, moving toward the hallway. His eyes narrowed, ears twitching as he listened for the slightest hint of movement. The sound came again—a scrape of metal against metal, faint but distinct.

Then—there was a shadow.

Rocket narrowed his eyes. “If you’re about to jump me…” he muttered under his breath, voice rough but steady, “...I swear I’m takin’ you down hard.”

But when the figure in the kitchen shifted and he caught a glimpse, his breath caught in his throat. There, standing near the counter—was me.

I looked up, mid-motion, freezing for a moment when I caught Rocket’s glare, the blaster trained on me.

“Mate,” I said, breaking the tense silence with a grin, “put that thing away before you shoot your nose despite your face.”

There was a long beat of silence.

Rocket blinked twice, then blinked again, staring at me in complete disbelief, before his eyes flitted down to the blaster in his paws. He blinked once more, his face scrunching in confusion and mild embarrassment. His mouth fell open slightly, just a little, as he processed the joke.

And then…

He let out a quiet, unrestrained laugh—a snort followed by an involuntary chortle, paws going to his face as he doubled over with amusement.

“Oh, you jerk!” he giggled, still holding the blaster in both paws, though now it was loosely pointed downward as he tried to stifle his laughter. “That’s the joke?!” He snorted again, his tail twitching with the aftershocks of his silent laughter. “D'you always have to make it that awkward? And what the flark is wrong with your face?”

I shook my head and stepped closer, reaching out to give him a light, playful shove, careful not to knock him off balance. “You’re lucky I didn’t get shot for that joke, mate.”

His laugh still bubbled up, this time a little more controlled, but his body relaxed with every chuckle. The blaster, now completely safe, slid from his paws and hit the floor with a dull clink.

“Flarkin’ nerd,” he mumbled, wiping his eyes, still holding his side, chuckling under his breath.

I couldn’t help but laugh too. “Come on, let’s get back to bed before you start an intergalactic war with that thing.”

Rocket shook his head, still grinning. “Next time, I'm keeping the gun and the punchline,” he muttered, giving me a good-natured nudge as we both headed back toward the bed.

He crawled back in first, a satisfied, sleepy look settling over his features. “You’re a pain in the tail, but you’re mine,” he mumbled, curling up against me once more.

And just like that, the night settled back into the soft, peaceful quiet, Rocket’s head tucked securely under my chin, the sound of his breathing slow and steady once again.

. . .

The warmth of the bed surrounded Rocket like a soft, quiet cocoon, but the real comfort came from the steady rhythm of your breathing, the calm presence of you beside him. The tension from earlier, the quick pulse of paranoia, was melting away, like ice beneath the warmth of the sun. His mind drifted, floating on a sea of soft thoughts, the weight of everything—everything he’d been through—seemingly forgotten in the safety of the moment.

There was no room for the hard edges of his past here. No threat of abandonment, no violence, no cold concrete floors of the Kyln or the jeers of those who saw him as nothing more than a joke. Just you. Just the gentle rise and fall of your chest beneath his cheek, and the steady sound of your heartbeat, like a lullaby written just for him.

Rocket’s eyelids fluttered closed, but not all the way—just enough to let the warmth of the room, the softness of the sheets, and the comfort of your touch lull him into a kind of trance. He didn’t even have to think about it anymore. It was as if he’d learned to feel safe again. In your arms, there was no more need to stay alert, no need to be ready for something to go wrong. There was only the peace he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in so long.

The low, distant hum of the apartment became a soft, comforting white noise, a reminder that they were both still here, together. The faint sounds of the wind outside, the soft creaks of the building—these things, too, felt like a whisper to his senses. Nothing dangerous. Nothing was coming for him.

The weight of the past, the countless betrayals, the endless running, the fear of being alone again… all of it seemed to drift away in the quiet of the night. For once, he didn’t have to worry about what was going to happen next.

He felt a small, content sigh bubble up from his chest, his body sinking deeper into the bed as he relaxed fully against you. A soft purr rumbled in his chest, more from the sheer relief of the moment than anything else. His body finally gave in, his tail unwinding from around your leg, stretching out like a sleepy cat’s.

In this moment, the world felt so small and safe. He let himself indulge in it, let himself forget the horrors of the past. He wasn’t some outcast anymore. He wasn’t the angry little raccoon trying to hide his pain behind sarcastic quips and a quick trigger finger. He was just… Rocket. Just a creature, curled up in the warmth of someone who cared enough to wash away the years of grime and scars.

His breathing slowed, deeper now, as his mind wandered through a haze of dreams. He imagined flying through the stars, not as a fugitive or a killer, but as someone free. Someone who belonged. He imagined the gentle wind of a distant planet brushing against his fur, the vast, open sky stretching out before him.

And maybe, just maybe, he imagined that this was what it was like to be truly home.

As his thoughts blurred with sleep, the edges of the world grew soft and distant. But there, in the heart of the dream, there was only peace. And you. Always you.

Rocket’s breathing evened out into a steady rhythm, his small body curling up tighter against you. He let the dream take him, the warmth and softness, the safety, folding him into a perfect moment of forgetfulness.

It was real. He didn’t have to question it anymore.

. . .

The first light of morning crept through the edges of the curtains, casting a soft, golden glow across the room. It was the kind of light that made everything look a little softer, a little more peaceful, as though the world was just waking up from a dream. The faint hum of the apartment was still there, the steady pulse of the world continuing on without a care, but inside this little space, it felt suspended in time.

Rocket’s small body was still curled against yours, his breath soft and steady, a quiet purr rumbling faintly in his chest. The warmth between you two hadn’t gone away, but it had shifted—there was an unmistakable sense of familiarity in the air now, a comfort that had solidified overnight. This wasn’t just a place to sleep. This was home. And for once, Rocket wasn’t fighting that feeling. He didn’t need to.

His ears twitched as the light from outside finally found its way into his consciousness, the shift in the air around him making his tail flicker slightly. But he didn’t move—he stayed nestled against your chest, still wrapped in the safety of the moment. The dreams that had lingered so peacefully began to fade, slipping away like sand through his fingers, but they left something behind—a quiet sense of peace that even his racing mind couldn’t quite shake.

The room felt even warmer now, the quiet of the morning wrapping around you both like a blanket. Rocket’s eyes fluttered open slowly, not quite awake, but aware enough to realize where he was. The gentle rise and fall of your chest beneath him was grounding, steady, familiar. He blinked once, twice, as if trying to remember if this was really real. But the feeling of your hand resting on his back, the soft touch of your fingers still lightly tracing the fur along his spine, told him everything he needed to know.

A small, content sigh escaped him, the sound barely audible as he stretched out slightly, his body still languid from sleep. His paws slowly moved up to your chest, curling softly, a subconscious action of comfort. His breathing deepened, his chest expanding and contracting with a quiet, steady rhythm.

The morning had come, but Rocket wasn’t ready to leave this peaceful little bubble yet. He stayed still for a moment longer, just taking in the feel of the moment. The weight of the blaster, the sharp edges of paranoia, the constant fear of everything falling apart—it all felt so far away now. In its place was the steady presence of someone who cared, someone who had become as real as the warmth he felt beside you.

He stretched again, slowly, letting the last remnants of sleep slip away, his tail flicking lazily at your leg, but this time, it was with a sense of contentment, not alertness. He felt a quiet smile pull at the corners of his lips—just a tiny tug of reassurance, a feeling of something permanent, something to hold on to.

The morning wasn’t just a new day. It was the beginning of something that felt like it might last forever.

And, for once, Rocket didn’t mind the thought of it.

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whitedragoncoranth · 2 months ago

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"A Week of Quiet Stars"

The week passed like a sweet dream, a gentle ebb and flow of tranquility and tenderness as Rocket and I cocooned ourselves in the warmth of the bed. Life outside faded into a distant memory, the hustle and bustle of the Milano becoming nothing more than a faint background hum, barely registering in our comfortable sanctuary.

The galaxy didn’t stop spinning, but it gave us space. And that was enough.

We emerged from the covers only when absolutely necessary—eating, stretching, rinsing off the sleep, the salt. Even then, the ship's corridors felt strange underfoot. Too bright, too vast. We'd return quickly, like otters slipping back into their den, drawn toward that small, sacred island of pillows and tangled blankets that had become our world.

Rocket thrived in it. Not just rested—thrived. He surrendered to stillness in a way that told me how little of it he’d ever truly had. I watched the change day by day: the tension unwinding from his shoulders, the fine lines of alertness softening around his eyes. Sleep cradled him, not as escape, but as healing. Each hour brought a little more color back to his voice, a little more steadiness to his breathing.

He looked younger, in those moments. Not innocent—Rocket had never been that—but peaceful in a way I don’t think he’d known he could be.

Sometimes I’d wake just enough to realize he’d shifted closer. I'd feel him tuck himself in tighter, his small body radiating warmth as he pressed to my chest. A paw resting over my shirt. His ear against my heartbeat. And instinctively, I’d wrap an arm around him again, holding him without ever needing to think about it. It became a rhythm. A ritual.

And it felt like home.

On one particularly still afternoon, with sunlight filtering through the ship’s modest viewport and casting long golden bars across the room, Rocket stirred.

He didn’t rush it. He never did. His return to waking was slow, like the tide rolling back across the shore.

I felt the change in his breathing before anything else. A subtle shift. Then the tiniest huff, a sound I’d come to recognize as him preparing to stretch. And then he did—limbs reaching and arching, his back curving in that full-body, spine-elongating way that small animals do when they trust the space they're in.

It was beautiful. Not just physically, though it was—little paws flexed, claws clicking softly as his fingers fanned out, toes curling with quiet satisfaction—but spiritually. Like watching someone reclaim themselves from within.

He stretched so thoroughly it looked like he might just keep going and flow off the bed entirely. Then, with a long, groggy sigh, he melted right back down onto my chest, as though gravity had turned up just for him.

I couldn’t help but smile, my voice a low murmur against the stillness. “That looked nice. Think I’ll need a stretch like that too.”

“Mmm… it felt divine…” he whispered, eyes fluttering shut again, his words slurred with sleep and half-laced with a purr.

I tucked my chin to rest lightly against his head. “Everything still hurts?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just nuzzled in deeper, his breathing slowing again. Then came the softest shake of his head. “Nah… not right now.”

It was the best answer I could’ve hoped for.

I stayed there, listening to the soft rhythm of our breath syncing up, feeling the way his presence grounded me—like an anchor, like a lifeline. The stillness was complete, not just quiet but whole. Not the absence of noise, but the presence of peace.

A rare and precious thing in this wild, violent universe.

I thought about everything he carried. All the battles, the scars, the history etched into his very bones. And how, in this moment, all of that had been allowed to rest. Not gone. Not forgotten. But soothed.

And in holding him, in watching over him in this gentle, wordless way, I realized I was healing too.

The hours stretched on, timeless, as if we’d slipped into a pocket outside reality. And when Rocket finally blinked awake again for real—eyes clearer, voice lighter, fur a little tousled—I could already feel that quiet magic beginning to fade.

He blinked up at me, one ear twitching. “I didn’t miss anything, did I?”

I smiled. “Not a thing.”

“Good.” He snuggled in again, but this time there was a spark of alertness in it. A readiness. “Guess it’s time to get back to the chaos soon, huh?”

“Yeah.” I brushed my fingers over his head, smoothing back a tuft of fur. “But not just yet.”

He hummed, the sound content and warm. “Good. I could use one more nap. With you.”

“Then nap we shall.”

And just like that, he tucked himself in one more time, and I held him close, knowing that even if the stars outside spun endlessly on… this moment was ours. Untouchable. Sacred. A heartbeat between storms.

"The First Morning After"

When we finally woke that morning, the golden light slipping through the small window offered a gentle reminder that another day awaited us. The world outside was bustling, but inside our cozy haven, the softness of lingering sleep still held dominion. I stretched lazily, feeling Rocket’s warm body nestled against me, and for a moment, I listened to the familiar sounds of the Milano—engines humming in the background, the occasional creaks of metal, and the rhythmic beeping of instruments somewhere in the distance.

Breakfast was a simple affair, a collection of snacks we’d stashed away for just this purpose. I picked out a few items from the small stash—some fresh fruit, a couple of protein bars, and a few leftover treats from previous meals. The sheer act of eating together felt joyful; it was a quiet celebration of our newfound strength.

Once we finished eating, the atmosphere shifted. I could feel a stir of anticipation as Rocket and I exchanged knowing glances. It was time to emerge from our cocoon and face the ship again. Stepping outside that warm blissful space felt daunting yet refreshing, like stepping into the sun after a long winter.

As we made our way through the dim corridors, I could see Rocket's renewed energy; there was a buoyancy to his movements I hadn’t noticed before, a lightness that made my heart swell with hope. It was as if the weight of his burdens—the scars of his past—had lifted, leaving behind only the bright spark of his spirit.

When we reached the main deck, something incredible happened. Rocket paused, looking around as if seeing the ship for the first time. His body straightened, and I noticed how his gaze flickered around, taking in every detail, every line of equipment, every panel. And as he moved further into the cabin, I caught a glimmer of something—not just curiosity or excitement, but pure elation.

“Something feels… different,” he murmured, almost to himself. He looked down at his arms and paws, flexing them, relaxing them, his expression a mix of disbelief and wonder.

“What do you mean?” I asked, stepping closer, intrigued by the transformation unfolding before me.

Rocket looked up at me, the brightness in his eyes unmistakable. “I don’t feel the aches. Or the pains. Nothing hurts inside,” he exclaimed, his voice trembling slightly as if he could scarcely comprehend the nature of what he was experiencing. “It’s like… like my implants finally decided to take a vacation or something. They went into sleep mode!”

I couldn’t stifle the grin that spread across my face at his excitement. “That’s amazing, Rocket! I think your week of rest and those cozy showers did wonders for you. Your body finally got the chance to reset!”

“Reset?” He blinked, the concept clearly dawning on him. “Like in the movies? You mean they actually… rebooted?”

“Exactly that,” I confirmed, feeling the swell of pride as I watched him discover this newfound energy. “Your systems took the time to recharge. You’ve been through so much, and now it’s like they finally got the break they needed.”

Something flickered in Rocket’s expression—hope mingling with disbelief. “Wow… I didn’t even know I could feel like this,” he said, his voice soft yet filled with amazement.

We moved around the cabin together with enthusiasm, and I could see it clearly in every twitch of his ears, every excited step he took. Each movement was no longer burdened by the weariness that once plagued him. Instead, he was free to explore, to interact with the ship that had been his home and sanctuary.

“Let’s check out the control room—I want to see if the navigational systems are still operational,” he said, his excitement infectious, and I couldn’t help but marvel at how alive he suddenly felt.

As we ventured deeper into the ship, Rocket moved with newfound confidence, his laughter echoing through the corridors. Every corner he inspected, every panel he marveled at seemed to spark energy in him that I had rarely witnessed before.

And I couldn’t help but feel exhilarated by the disbelief that washed over us. Rocket was healing. The combination of rest, love, and trusting space had allowed him to shed layers of pain, both physical and emotional, and what stood before me now was a radiant, spirited Rocket—a testament to resilience.

“Are you ready to tackle whatever the universe throws at us next?” I asked, watching him as he turned back to me, clapping his paws together.

“Bring it on!” he exclaimed, his voice ringing with determination. “I’m ready for anything… as long as we do it together!”

And as we moved forward, I felt an overwhelming sense of camaraderie and gratitude. Together, we would face whatever lay ahead, emboldened by the healing we had shared and the love that had bloomed between us. The universe felt vast and open, and I knew that with Rocket beside me, we were ready to take it on—no matter what challenges awaited.

"The Day"

"As the day turned into an easy rhythm aboard the Milano, Rocket sprawled comfortably on my shoulder, his soft, velvety fur glimmering with the remnants of our cozy week. His little paws were busy adjusting tools and fiddling with gadgets on the antigrav platforms he’d created, and he exuded an energy I hadn’t seen from him in ages.

The atmosphere was entirely different now. There was no chaos or frantic energy, no raised voices or heated arguments—just a soothing hum of creation and collaboration. Every movement Rocket made was filled with purpose, and his laughter echoed softly in our workstation as he directed me, his voice light and playful.

“Can you shift to the left a little, Dave? Just a bit more—right there! Perfect!” he commanded, confidence in his tone. I obliged, feeling a burst of affection at how effortlessly he had stepped into this role, embracing his newfound spirit and energy.

“Alright, Mr. Engineer,” I teased, watching him as he rummaged through his toolkit. “What’s on the agenda today?”

He glanced back at me, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “Just a few adjustments to the thrusters. I want to test a recalibration for better maneuverability—we need to be prepared for anything that comes our way, you know!”

As I crouched down to reach a lower panel, I felt Rocket nuzzle against me, his soft nose brushing my cheek. The sweet gesture sent warmth flooding through me, a reminder of the bond we shared—this quiet, unshakable connection built on trust, comfort, and pure affection.

“Hey, don’t distract me,” I replied with mock seriousness, trying to hold my focus, even as his little purr vibrated against my ear. “We can’t have you getting into trouble now, can we?”

“Trouble? Me?” Rocket feigned innocence, his eyes wide as he dramatically fluffed his fur. “Never!”

The banter made the atmosphere light and airy, and I felt my heart swell with happiness at how effortlessly we managed to slip into this new normal. It was as if the universe around us had adjusted to this harmony, savoring the peace we had created together.

As we tinkered away, I noticed the others aboard the Milano occasionally glancing our way with expressions of surprise and confusion. They were used to the dynamic crew that often got animated during repairs and discussions, heated arguments and passionate debates; we were a motley crew of personalities.

But here was Rocket—easy-going, affectionate, and utterly at peace, working methodically, signaling to me in gentle whispers or soft pats to move around as needed. There was no sense of urgency or fear, just a shared focus on the task and a commitment to getting it right—together.

“Do you guys need any help?” Peter quipped, peeking around the corner with a playful smirk. “Or are you two just on a cuddle mission?”

“Cuddle mission?” I chuckled, shaking my head. “This is serious work, Quill. We’re recalibrating for better maneuverability, not planning a snuggle-fest.”

“Right,” he said with an exaggerated nod, crossing his arms as he watched Rocket settle in, his paws busy with soldering. “You both are just… different. Like… Zen or something. It’s strange.”

I shrugged, a fond smile tugging at my lips as I glanced down at Rocket, who was now nuzzling his chin into my shoulder, seemingly content to have me close. “Maybe we’ve found our groove. It’s called teamwork, Peter. You should try it sometime.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he replied, feigning disinterest but clearly intrigued. “Just don’t get too cozy now. Can’t have you two turning into mushy lovebirds.”

But I could sense the genuine approval beneath his sarcasm. It wasn’t just the actions Rocket and I were undertaking; it was the calmness that radiated from us, the undeniable love that created a bubble of safety not just for ourselves but for everyone around us.

We made our way through the tasks at hand effortlessly, exchanging quiet words, gentle nudges, and occasional playful banter, like an orchestra in perfect sync. When I leaned over, Rocket would giggle and kick his feet playfully, and I found myself lost in moments of pure joy, struggling to keep a straight face while green-eyed jealousy flashed in Drax’s gaze.

As the hours passed, I couldn’t help but notice how others began to shift their perspectives. They would catch the subtle smiles, the soft nuzzles, the way Rocket's laughter mixed with the steady rhythm of our work, and I could sense a kind of admiration blooming among them.

In this little pocket of the universe, amidst wires and tools, we were creating more than just a stronger Milano; we were building a tighter bond—a family. The chaos was still out there waiting for us, but here and now, everything felt right.

As Rocket secured the last bolt on the thruster, he turned to me, his pretty eyes twinkling with delight, a triumphant smile lighting his face. “We did it,” he declared proudly, puffing out his chest.

“Together, as always,” I replied, gently ruffling his fur. And in that moment, I realized that despite the uncertainties that lay ahead, we had carved out a space that felt safe, united by friendship, love, and a whole lot of cuddling. This was our crew, our sanctuary, and together, we could face anything the universe dared to throw our way."

#rocket raccoon #love #friendship #rocket raccoon fanfiction

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whitedragoncoranth · 2 months ago

Text

“Just Be Little”

It started slow. Subtle.

Back under the Den-Dome, the lights were off this time, the room bathed in a soft, dim shadow that curled into the corners. The hum of the universe beyond the walls, the comforting silence of the night, was broken only by Rocket’s quiet presence. But it wasn’t the usual quiet — not broody, not snappy, not his usual constant buzz of tension or deflection. Tonight, it was different. He was just… watching. Big eyes in the dim, ears up, twitching ever so slightly.

You didn’t say anything at first, letting the quiet hold the space. But when he didn’t speak for a while, you couldn’t help it. Your voice came out soft, tentative.

“You okay, bud?”

He hesitated, and then you felt him shift his weight. His claws flexed once, twice, his little paws gripping the edge of the duvet like he was grounding himself. It took him a moment to answer.

“… ‘m thinkin’,” he muttered, the words almost swallowed by the quiet.

You didn’t push him. You just shifted to face him more fully, open your arms just slightly, offering him the space without any pressure, the unspoken promise that if he wanted to come, he could.

And then, like a tide breaking, he moved.

He crawled over, but it wasn’t his usual playful scurry, not the familiar bounce or half-wrestling, half-joking way he sometimes made his way toward you. No, this time it was different. He crawled with purpose, slow and deliberate, like something fragile was finally pushing through the walls he kept built up.

And then he was there, curled tight against your chest, chin tucked in, ears low, his entire little body folding into you. His paw clung to your shirt, the other tucked under his own chin, like he was grounding himself against the storm that had been brewing inside him.

You held him. Just like that. No words, no movement. Just you and him, in that moment.

“I… wanna be little,” he whispered into your chest, his voice soft, small. “Don’t wanna be strong or smart or snarly right now. Don’t wanna fix nothin’. Don’t wanna fight. Just… wanna be held.”

And your heart broke a little. But it wasn’t a bad kind of broken. It was the kind of break that let everything good in come rushing through. You wrapped both arms around him, one hand cradling his head gently.

“You can be,” you whispered. “You’re safe now. You can just be.”

There was a sound then. A sound that caught in his throat — a hiccup, a sob, maybe both. He clutched tighter to you, as if holding on to the truth you were offering him was the only thing that kept him from unraveling completely.

“Nots 89P13,” he breathed, the words rough. “Nots…”

“No,” you agreed, firm and soft, the words leaving your chest like a promise. “Nots. You’re Rocket. You’re mine.”

And that was it.

He broke. Not loud. Not wild. It wasn’t some frantic, all-consuming kind of cry. It was quieter than that. But it shook him, rattled him to his core. His little body trembled against yours, the sobs coming in small, broken breaths, each one like he was releasing a piece of himself he’d held for too long. It wasn’t pain that made him cry — it was something else. Something deep that had been buried too long, never given the room it needed to breathe.

You held him through it all. Through the hitching breaths, through the whispered “nots” and “wants” and “cants,” through every fragment of broken language he was slowly piecing back together. You felt him unwind, breath by breath, until his body softened, his muscles went limp, and he was nothing more than a warm weight pressed against your chest, his little paws relaxed against your ribs.

Rocket had gone still.

Tucked into your chest, soft as you’d ever felt him, his breath warm against your shirt. One paw loosely tangled in the fabric of your shirt, like he didn’t want to risk drifting away.

“You think’s I’m dumb now?” he asked, his voice low, almost teasing. Almost.

But you heard it. The thread of doubt beneath the words. The fragile hope that, even after everything, maybe he could still be accepted. Maybe he could just… be.

Your voice cracked, barely above a whisper, before you could even think of a response.

“No…” you breathed. “I thinks you Rocket just be little. You Rocket be small boy. You Rocket be my boy…”

And then, without warning, you were crying.

Crying into his fur, into the soft scruff at the back of his neck, into the warmth of him, alive and safe and here. It was the first time you’d ever let yourself weep in his presence like this, and the sobs that came felt like all the weight of everything that had ever been taken from him. All the things the High Evolutionary couldn’t touch, couldn’t take from either of you. The love. The truth. The bond.

Rocket didn’t pull away. He just pressed closer, his little body warm and trembling against you. His paw splayed wide over your ribs, clutching at you like he was afraid you'd vanish too.

“M’not smart all the time,” he mumbled, almost apologetic, like it was something that needed explaining. Like it was something he feared would push you away.

You shook your head softly, your arms tightening around him, the words coming as easily as your breath.

“Don’t gotta be,” you whispered. “You don’t gotta be anything.”

A long silence stretched between you. Thick with breath. With tears. With the steady rhythm of two hearts — yours and his — beating together, unified in that moment.

And then, finally, Rocket spoke again, his voice small but steady.

“Then… I wants to stay little. Just for now.”

You pressed a gentle kiss to the top of his head, your hands cradling his fragile frame with the kind of tenderness that could only come from truly knowing someone. From truly understanding them.

“Then little you stays,” you promised, your voice a quiet vow. “Right here. Always.”

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whitedragoncoranth · 2 months ago

Text

"Talk Dumb and Soft"

The Den-Dome was dim tonight, the low gold glow of the little lamp casting soft shadows on the walls. The air was warm under the heavy duvet, and you lay there, side by side, Rocket curled up against you, his body half-draped across your chest. He was calm, steady — his breathing slow and rhythmic, but his eyes, even in the soft glow of the room, held something more. Something that didn’t quite match the stillness of the moment.

You didn’t rush him. You never did when he was like this. You just stroked behind his ears, slow and steady, and waited.

Eventually, his voice broke the silence. It was low, but not tired. Thoughtful. A little bitter.

“Y’ever think about how they wanted me to talk?”

You could feel the weight in his words. The bitterness, the frustration that still lived beneath the surface, even now, after everything he’d been through.

“Like I was a damn science drone or somethin’,” he continued. “Clipped words. Clean syntax. ‘Yes, sir. No, sir.’ Not a trace of anything… me.”

You nodded slowly, resting your chin against the soft fur of his head. You knew. You didn’t need him to explain further. You’d seen the damage done — the way they stripped away everything that made Rocket, Rocket. The way they tried to make him less than what he was, to fit him into some neat, controlled box.

“Bet they hated it when you got clever.”

Rocket let out a small chuckle, but it was dark, laced with bitterness. “He despised it. Hated my voice. Hated when I laughed. Said I was ‘malfunctioning.’” He scoffed, a little humor bleeding through, but the hurt didn’t leave his tone. “Said it like existing was a bug in the code.”

You tightened your arm around him, pulling him closer, grounding him. You didn’t need to say anything — not now. Your presence was enough.

“He was wrong,” you whispered, the words simple but full of everything you felt. Everything that he needed to hear.

Rocket was quiet for a beat, then he spoke again. This time, his voice shifted, softer, more fragile. It was as if he was letting something dangerous slip free — a piece of himself that he hadn’t dared voice before.

“I wants…” he began, and the way he said it — the little s at the end — made your heart ache. It was a quiet admission, as if he was testing the weight of the words, unsure whether they’d even fit. “I wants to talk dumb and soft and not get looked at weird for it. Not get corrected.”

His voice trembled slightly with the weight of it, and you could feel that familiar tension radiating off him. But this time, it wasn’t something sharp — it was softer, gentler, the kind of vulnerability that stung in all the right ways.

He paused, then repeated it, firmer this time, as if reinforcing a truth that had been buried deep inside him for far too long.

“I wants to say ‘nots’ and ‘cants’ and ‘wonts’ and giggly dumb stuff and not feel like I’m gonna get dragged back into a lab for a firmware update.”

You cupped the back of his neck, the gesture simple but grounding.

“You can, Rocket. You do.”

He melted into that — the words settling over him like a blanket, something solid he could rest in. You felt a breath shudder out of him, something locked inside him finally letting go.

“I talks how I wants. I laughs when I wants. I builds when I wants, and sleeps when I wants, and cuddles when I wants.”

His voice had turned fierce now, quiet but burning with a quiet fury. He wasn’t yelling, but the intensity of it was still there, raw and real.

“Ain’t nobody got no claim on how I’m supposed to be.”

You couldn’t help but grin, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of his head.

“Damn right.”

The words hung in the air for a moment, then — almost like an afterthought — Rocket’s voice dropped low again, small and fragile.

“… I wants to be little sometimes.”

You felt your heart twist, break, in the best way. The simplicity of the words, the weight of everything they carried — it was all there. He was asking for something so small, so simple, yet so important. A piece of himself he’d probably been afraid to admit, let alone say out loud.

You pulled him closer, tight against your chest, and whispered, “Then you be little, Rocket. I’ve got you.”

He curled in even closer, his arms, tail, and warmth all wrapped tight around you. For once, he was small, vulnerable, and he didn’t have to pretend. He didn’t have to be anything but what he was, and you were there.

“You always do,” he murmured, his voice muffled against your chest.

And that was it. There were no more words. The quiet stretched between you both, wrapped in the soft warmth of the moment. No pressure, no expectation — just the simple, quiet comfort of being together. The softest, most real thing.

Dumb. Soft. His way.

And it was perfect.

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whitedragoncoranth · 2 months ago

Text

“Wants”

The cabin was quiet, save for the gentle hum of the engines keeping the ship on course. The lights had been dimmed, casting long shadows across the walls, but they didn’t matter. Not here, not now.

Rocket was curled up tighter than usual, practically tucked into himself like he was trying to disappear into the warmth of the bed beneath him. It was unusual — Rocket never let himself shrink like this. Even when he was tired, even when he was hurt, there was always a part of him that stayed large, brash, too much. But not tonight.

His breathing had slowed, soft and steady, but every now and then there was a subtle shift, his body moving against you. His nose twitched as if he was sorting through too many thoughts at once, a soft, barely audible huff escaping him now and then.

You reached over instinctively, fingers grazing behind his ear in a gentle stroke, and that seemed to pull something from him. His body hummed in response, the slightest of shivers racing down his spine as the tension that always coiled there slowly began to ease.

And then, his voice — low and hesitant — broke the silence.

“Hey,” he mumbled, his eyes not meeting yours, focused on some invisible spot ahead. His words were soft, almost too soft. “You really... really get it, huh?”

You nodded, even though he wasn’t looking. “Yeah. I do.”

For a long moment, there was nothing but the steady rhythm of his breathing and the faint whir of the ship. The words hung between you both like fragile glass, so easy to break, so easy to shatter if you weren't careful.

Then, he let out a little chuckle. It was breathy, forced, almost like he wasn’t entirely sure how to say what he was about to say.

“I… wants.”

His words came slowly, each one deliberate, like he was testing them out, tasting the weight of them in his mouth before he let them settle into the space between you. “I wants lotsa things. I just didn’t know I could.”

You didn’t interrupt. Didn’t rush to fill the silence. You just held him, waiting for him to keep going.

He shifted again, curling up just a little tighter against you, like he was afraid if he let go for even a second, it would all slip away. His voice grew quieter, more fragile as the moments passed.

“Not just tech stuff. I wants... this.” He let out a short, breathy laugh, his voice thick with something he didn’t quite know how to name. “I wants to sleep safe. I wants to be held. I wants to talk dumb and soft and not get looked at weird.”

His words were stumbling now, as if they were all spilling out at once, too much for him to contain, too important for him to hold back. You could feel his heart racing in his chest, the weight of it pressing against you.

And then, the quietest of whispers — like a threadbare confession.

“I wants to laugh and not feel like I’m gonna pay for it later.”

And in that moment, it was like the world paused. The air between you grew thick, and you could feel the weight of everything Rocket was carrying — all the times he’d laughed through his pain, all the times he’d hidden the cracks behind his tough exterior.

Without a second thought, you held him closer, tightening your arms around him, pulling him into your warmth like you could somehow shield him from the weight of everything that had hurt him. You didn’t need to say anything — Rocket knew exactly what you meant. You were there. You always would be.

“You can,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “You can laugh, Rocket. And you don’t have to worry about paying for it. You’re safe. All your wants — the ones you’ve said and the ones you haven’t even realized yet — they’re real. You deserve them. You deserve all of it.”

He melted into you, but not in the way he usually did. It wasn’t giving up or letting go. No, this was different. This was him finally allowing himself to rest, to put down the armor, to stop holding his breath for the inevitable blow. The iron inside him finally softened, like something too long wound up was finally allowed to unfurl.

For a long while, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the soft rise and fall of his chest beneath your hand, the steady breath of someone who had never let himself truly breathe before. And that was enough.

But then, quieter still, barely a murmur, he spoke again.

“N-not just tonight…” he whispered, voice trembling just a little. “I wanna be here… with you. Not... with anyone else. With you.”

Your heart stuttered in your chest, but you didn’t hesitate.

“I want that too, Rocket,” you said softly, your voice full of everything that had been left unsaid between you both. “I want you, all of you. I’m never going anywhere, either.”

For a moment, he was still, but you felt it — the shift inside him. The way he was finally allowing himself to be seen, to be held, to be wanted.

And that was enough.

He sighed, contentment settling over him like a blanket, his body relaxing against yours. And then, in the quietest, most vulnerable of whispers, he murmured:

“Nots ever gonna stop bein’... me.”

And that was the moment everything changed. The weight, the tension, the need to pretend — all of it just melted away. Because here, with you, he could finally be himself. All of him. Even the messy parts. Even the ones he’d hidden for so long.

And in that silence, the two of you stayed there, the universe outside your little corner of the world fading into the background, leaving only the soft, steady heartbeat of something real. Something you would both hold onto forever.

#rocket raccoon #rocket raccoon fanfiction #friendship #love #rocket raccoon x reader

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whitedragoncoranth · 2 months ago

Text

Nots! (Rocket / Human Friend)

Skyclad and Furclad — soft and vulnerable beneath the duvet, beneath the arched embrace of the Den-Dome Canopy, the safe place we made together.

The night was quiet, save for the hum of life outside. Somewhere, the soft shifting of leaves. The occasional creak of the dome’s frame, cooled by the night air. But in here, under the covers, the world had narrowed to two shapes—mine and Rocket’s. Flesh and fur. Skin and scar. Heart and heartbeat.

He reached for my hand with both of his paws. I let him guide it, watched him press it gently—no, deliberately—to the center of his chestfur. Right over his heart.

“Right here,” he murmured, eyes glassy, voice raw. “Where they thought I’d forget.”

He didn’t have to explain. We’d talked about it before—how 89P13 was not just a number, not just a tag, but a scar in numeric form. A brand they burned into his life. And now, he wanted to overwrite it. Not by erasing it, but by reclaiming the idea entirely.

I shifted closer, body to body, soul to soul. My fingers curled slightly into his fur, where the beat of his heart thudded steady, strong… alive.

Then, slowly, softly—I began to trace letters into his fur.

“One. Eight.” His chest rose, hitched.

“One. Five.” His ears flicked, eyes squeezed shut.

“Three.” A tremble.

“Eleven.” A strangled breath.

“Five.” He whimpered, paws clutching tighter.

“Twenty.”

I leaned in, brushing my lips to his ear. “R… O… C… K… E… T.”

For a second, everything held still — like the whole universe stopped breathing.

Then Rocket snapped. The sob that ripped from his throat cracked like thunder, and he shouted — no, roared — from somewhere deep and broken and burning:

“NOTS 89P13 ANYMORE!! NOTS!!!”

He screamed it, voice raw and shaking and fierce, the words torn out between sobs, like they’d been clawing their way out of his ribs for years.

“NOTS!!”

His whole body surged against mine, gripping my hand so tight his claws dug in—but I didn’t flinch. I held him. I held him through it.

He buried his face against my chest as the shout gave way to broken breathing and racked sobs. His tail looped around me desperately, grounding himself. Curling in. Trembling. Breathing.

“…nots anymore…” he whispered, softer now. Crumbling down into the truth of it. "Nots!"

He pressed back into me, paws curled around my fingers, keeping my hand right there—right on him, as though the memory might leak out if he let go. His tail wrapped around my leg, anchoring himself.

“Nots,” I whispered back, and kissed his headfur. “Not anymore. Never again.”

He buried his face into the curve of my throat, shaking with silent sobs, as I held him like something sacred. Because he is. Because this isn’t just comfort—it’s defiance. It's rebellion. It's revolution.

Let the High Evolutionary rot in the knowledge that we took the numbers, the same kind he stamped into flesh and bone like cold inventory tags—and we turned them into a name. A real one. A living one. A chosen one.

And in this bed, beneath the Den-Dome, wrapped in warmth and love and fierce, terrible tenderness—Rocket lives.

Not 89P13. Not a tool. Not a pet. Not a subject.

Just… Rocket. Mine, and his own.

His breathing was ragged. Chest heaving under my hand like a creature still running from something it can no longer see — only feel. The tremors in his body didn’t stop, not right away. They came in waves, each one crashing against him from the inside.

He didn't speak. Didn’t need to.

His claws were still dug in just enough to hurt — not on purpose. He probably didn’t even know. I didn’t tell him. Let them stay. Let the sting anchor me there with him, proof that this was real. That he was real. That we were still here.

I slid my other hand up along his spine, gently, rhythmically — not to calm him down. Not yet. Not to hush the storm. Just to say: I’m here. I see you. Let it burn.

Because maybe he needed this — to rage, to sob, to scream that name out of existence. That number. That brand. That prison. The ID tag that tried to replace his soul.

And now?

Now there was only Rocket. Only the body in my arms, shaking, gasping. Alive.

I lowered my forehead to his, our brows touching. His eyes were squeezed shut, wet fur streaked with salt and pain, ears pinned back but not from shame — not anymore. Just the weight. The exhaustion. The aftermath.

“I hear you,” I murmured, barely a breath. “I witness you.” And I pressed my thumb, slow and steady, against the center of his chest. Right where I’d traced those letters. Right where the sobs came from. Where he came from.

He twitched — a hiccup of a sound caught in his throat.

Then, quieter.

“…nots…”

It came out like a whisper, like a spell. And I nodded.

“Nots.”

A pause. His voice, breaking but stubborn:

“Mine.”

Oh, stars. That hit hard. I swallowed down a sob of my own and kissed his forehead again, fiercely this time.

“Yes,” I breathed. “Yours. Always.”

He didn’t say anything else. Not right away.

But suddenly — all at once — he latched onto me like he was falling, like gravity had shifted and I was the only thing keeping him from dropping into the void.

Small but strong arms wrapped around my ribs, claws curled into the fabric of my shirt like they’d tear through it if they had to. His face pressed hard against my chest, jaw clenched, breath caught.

I held him tighter. Matched his grip, bone for bone, until we were one single knot of breath and warmth and aching hearts.

He clung.

Hard.

Like the weight of those three syllables — “Nots. Mine.” — had pulled something loose inside him and he was terrified it might slip away again if he didn’t hold on with everything he had.

My arms wrapped fully around his small frame, both hands spread wide along his back. Steady. Anchored.

“I’m here,” I whispered. Not the first time I’d said it. Not the last.

His body shook again — but this time it wasn’t the jagged, uncontrolled tremble of grief. It was smaller. More like a full-body exhale trying to happen but still catching on the edges.

He made a soft, broken sound. Not words. Just a breath, crushed and lost and maybe something almost like relief.

Then — like the world didn’t stop all at once but eased off the throttle — I felt him begin to unwind.

Bit by bit.

The deathgrip loosened. Not completely — his paws still held fistfuls of fabric — but the white-knuckle panic in them faded. His chest, once heaving, found rhythm again. In. Pause. Out. Quicker than mine, still shaken, but no longer wild.

I felt the lines of his back soften beneath my palm. The taut, coiled strength of him melting, slowly, into the safety between us.

His tail, once wrapped tight around my waist like a lifeline, slackened just enough to become comfort instead of armor.

He didn’t pull away. Didn’t speak. But he shifted — just enough to rest against me now, instead of clinging like the world might end.

And I let him.

Let him be there. Quiet. Unmoving. Held.

Because this, right here, was what freedom looked like in the dark: A trembling breath. A letting go. A name remembered.

Rocket.

Not 89P13.

Never again.

The silence between us stretched long — but it wasn’t empty.

It was full. Full of breath. Full of warmth. Full of the way his small body slowly molded into mine, no longer fighting to hold himself together.

His grip had gone slack. Not from weariness alone — but trust. Because he knew he didn’t have to brace anymore. Not here. Not with me.

I tilted my head just slightly, cheek resting against the crown of his fur. His scent — the familiar, wild, grease-and-metal tangle of Rocket — grounded me. As if I needed anchoring now, too.

The Den-Dome above us flickered with dim, low-toned light, like a night-sky simulation — soft starlight dappling the canvas of our little world. It shimmered over the duvet, over us, casting everything in a peaceful, far-off glow. Like the galaxy was holding its breath to let him rest.

He let out a sigh.

A real one this time. Deep. Honest. The kind that only comes when the armor has finally come off.

“…my chest hurts…” he murmured. Not afraid, not panicked. Just tired. Open.

“I know,” I said softly, running my hand along his back in slow, even strokes. “That was a lot. But you did good.”

He huffed something — maybe a weak, disbelieving laugh. Maybe just the breath his body found next. But he didn’t argue.

Didn’t push away.

Instead, he shifted again — head turning just enough to nestle deeper into my chest, one paw tucked under his own chin now, the other still resting lightly over mine on his chest. Our hands layered right over his heart.

The name still written there. Still his.

His breathing had settled into a rhythm now. Light. Even. Tired, but no longer drowning.

And slowly — slowly — the last of the tension unwound from his shoulders. Like he was melting into the warmth, into the softness, into the simple fact that no alarms were going off, no needles in his skin, no pain he had to hide behind fury.

Just a bed. A canopy. A steady heartbeat under his cheek. Someone who knew. Who stayed.

He didn’t say goodnight. Didn’t need to.

He just curled in a little closer — the way a child might, without thinking, without shame — and let the silence fold over him like a blanket.

And then… he slept.

Like it was allowed. Like he was allowed.

Like the war for his name had finally been won.

Rocket was quiet now, still and warm, his chest rising and falling in steady breaths against my own. But there was something there, in the air between us — like he was still on the edge of something, not fully letting go, his mind still circling around the safety we’d built in this moment.

And then, just as the world outside the Den-Dome went silent — as if the whole universe were holding its breath — Rocket murmured.

“…c’n’t… r’member… when… I… r’ally was nots anymore.” His voice was thick, sleep-drunken, a little slurred from the tears still clinging to his throat. But it was soft. So soft. Almost too soft for his usual gruff tone. Almost like a word only meant for me.

“Yeah,” I whispered, brushing my thumb along his fur again. “It’s like… a puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit, huh? But it doesn’t matter anymore, Rocket. You’re not 89P13. You’re you.”

He snorted lightly, his breath hitching in an almost-laugh. “…yeah, ‘cept… maybe I didn’t forget, y’know?” He shifted a little, paw curling up just under his chin, and I felt the warmth of him press a little closer. “Maybe I jus’ didn’t know what the words were s'posed to feel like till you said 'em.”

I couldn’t help the soft smile that tugged at my lips. “The words were always yours, Rocket.”

He hummed a little in acknowledgment, but his voice dropped even lower now, almost a whisper. “M’not… like… the other ones, though. Y’know?”

The other ones. The ones like him, but not. The ones who didn’t have names, just numbers and genes.

I pulled him closer without a word. Just held him. Tight. Not to fix anything, but because he needed it.

Rocket breathed a little shakier, and I felt his fingers brush against mine again — a tentative, sleepy kind of touch.

“Not the same as ‘em...”

His voice got softer, a little slurred, barely a whisper — and I could feel the weight of the words. Maybe they weren’t even meant for me to hear — but he said them anyway.

“...m’not their......not their… kinda...thing…”

A slow exhale came from me. He was mixing up his words. Mis-saying them, just like he always did when he was emotionally wrung out. But they were his words, his feelings tangled into syllables, fitting only here, in this moment.

“Not their thing,” I echoed softly. “No. You’re not. You’re you, Rocket. Just you.”

He didn’t respond. He just shivered, barely perceptible, like the weight of the truth was sitting on his chest. And then... one of those small, soft mis-said words again.

“...n’tyeah... guess I am, huh?”

A small sigh escaped me — not from sadness, but from the depth of how far we’d come.

“Yeah,” I said, pulling him a little closer, pressing my cheek to his headfur. “You’re you. And that’s all anyone needs to know.”

I held him as the weight of sleep started to press down on his eyelids, the gentle pull of exhaustion tugging at him. But before he let go, before he drifted into the safety of sleep, his voice stirred again — soft, like a secret only meant for me.

“...don’t…” Rocket mumbled, barely coherent. His words came out a little jumbled, a little slurred. “Don’t… ever... wants... me t’ go...” His voice trailed off like he didn’t mean to say it aloud — like it was a truth he was still learning.

My heart did that thing where it almost stuttered, but I didn’t let it show. I just kept holding him, my hand brushing over his back, anchoring him. “Never, Rocket. Not ever.”

He huffed a little, a short breath that might’ve been a laugh or a sigh. “Good,” he mumbled, the word dragged out like it was the last thing he needed to hear. But the uncertainty was there, buried under his stubbornness.

He shifted a bit, leaning into me, his fur warm and comforting against my chest. Then came another word, so quiet I almost didn’t catch it.

“...cants… believe... I’m... here...” He said it like a confession, like he still couldn’t quite wrap his head around it.

I kissed the top of his head, just once, soft. "You’re here, Rocket. You always will be."

The silence between us was thick, but not heavy — comfortable. Almost like the night was wrapping its arms around us both, letting him settle.

A few moments passed, but then another word slipped out. It was more of a sleepy, resigned murmur than a conscious choice.

“…nots... like I could... ever…” His voice was wavering, breaking slightly. “…wants to leave…” His tone caught, just a little, like it was a truth too big to hold inside his chest.

“Know you don’ts,” I whispered, the words warm between us, my thumb tracing little patterns over the back of his hand, feeling the softness of his fur.

Rocket’s soft snort of surprise quickly gave way to the familiar sound of his laugh. A breathy, little giggle, the kind he couldn’t hide when he was this comfortable.

“And you won’ts!” I teased, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

“You—” He broke off into another soft laugh, half-choked by the relief of it. “Rocket stays! I’m stayin’, y’know! Ain’t goin’ anywhere!” He grinned as he said it, the mischievous side of him peeking through even in this tender, sleepy haze.

I couldn’t help but smile, my heart swelling a little. “Yeah, you are. Rocket stays.”

Now he was laughing for real — a soft, giddy sound that made the air around us feel even warmer. His body shook lightly, and I could feel him press a little closer, burrowing into the warmth of me like he could stay here forever, laughing in this little pocket of softness.

“Stay, huh?” His voice was still full of giggles, but there was a playfulness there too. He pulled back just enough to look up at me, his eyes sparkling, pupils a little wider from the joy he was trying to hold back. “Guess that means I’m stuck with ya now, huh?”

“You’re stuck with me, Rocket,” I chuckled, my hand gently running through his fur, smoothing it down. “I’m not letting you go. You are staying.”

He sighed dramatically, still grinning, but I could feel the quiet underneath it. The security, the comfort. "Don’t know if I wanna leave anyway,” he muttered, his voice softening again, though his grin didn’t fade.

“That’s right. You don’t wants to leave,” I whispered, catching the playful edge of his words.

He snorted again, then giggled even harder, finally letting his guard slip away fully as the laughter bubbled up from him, echoing in the quiet space between us. “Guess nots, huh?”

“Nope,” I agreed softly, rubbing his back. “You nots going anywhere. You Rocket stays!”

Rocket's laughter faded into breathy giggles as he pressed closer, his body winding in like he was trying to melt into me, as though he’d never let go. He paused for a second, letting the silence stretch between us, but his voice came out soft, almost tentative, the way he said things when he wasn’t sure whether it was okay to feel this way, to say these things.

“I... I never knew it could be like this, y'know?” Rocket murmured, his hand still clutching mine, fingers curling around my palm as if he needed me to be there to keep him steady. "I always thought... well, that’s the thing, ain't it?" He let out a little laugh again, though it was quieter this time. "I always thought it was all just... fake, y'know? Like... like nobody really gets it. Gets me."

I could feel his paws trembling just slightly, like the words were too big for him, or maybe too important. I held him tighter, not needing to say anything, just letting him know I was there.

“But you,” Rocket said, and his voice was different now — gentler, quieter, like a little piece of him was finally coming into the light. “You... you’re... not like the others. You get it. You get me. You hear me, and I... don’t gotta explain myself all the time." His chest hitched, just slightly, and I could hear the truth of it — the rawness in his words.

His fingers curled tighter around mine, and I could feel the weight of those little slips in his speech, those “mis-said” words. He said them with so much care, as if they were fragile little gifts only meant for me, only meant for us. "You—" He stopped for a second, chuckling like he was embarrassed. "You know what I mean. I cants... I cants ever go back to bein' what I was. No more fake stuff." He let out another little laugh, but it was strained. "No more pretending."

“Rocket,” I whispered, gently rubbing his back, “You don’t have to pretend with me. Never. I get you. All of you.”

He let out a quiet sigh, like he’d been holding his breath for too long. "Nots like I ever could with anyone else. I couldn’t… couldn’t trust anyone else like this." His voice softened even more, like he was afraid of saying it, but he needed to. “But with you... I can just be... me. Just me.”

His paws moved, reaching up to gently touch my cheek, his fingers trembling as if the gesture alone were a question. His voice dropped, becoming even softer. “I wants to stay like this, you know? For real. Not just... not just tonight. Forever. I want to be here... with you. Not... with anyone else. With you.”

My heart swelled. Every word he said was another piece of him — a piece that had been buried, lost, or crushed in the past — coming back to life. And he was giving it to me, now, in this space between us, where we were free to just be.

“I want that too, Rocket,” I whispered, my voice just as soft. “I want you, all of you. I’m never going anywhere, either.”

He smiled against my chest, but his voice came out a little more vulnerable than before. “I... I was afraid of this. Afraid of... not being able to be me, y’know? Always thought I had to hide it. All of it. The good parts and the bad parts. But you... you just...” He let out a shaky breath, and I could feel the weight of his admission. “You make me wanna be better. Wanna show you all of me. Even the messed-up parts.”

“Rocket,” I said again, voice full of reassurance, my hand gently brushing through his fur. “You don’t have to change a thing for me. I’m here for all of it. Every part of you.”

For a moment, he was still, his breathing steady, the silence wrapping around us like a blanket. I felt his body relax, the tension melting away, but there was a kind of determination in him now — the certainty that he was going to let me in. All the way.

"Yeah," he whispered, as though he was finally believing it himself. “Yeah... I can be me... with you."

And there, in the softness of the night, Rocket let out one last deep, contented sigh, his body unwinding completely against mine. His last little slip of words was nothing but a murmur against my chest:

“Nots ever gonna stop bein’... me.”

And I held him, forever.

#rocket raccoon #rocket raccoon fanfiction #friendship #love

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whitedragoncoranth · 2 months ago

Text

“The Quiet Between Heartbeats” (A Rocket Raccoon & Raccoon David ficlet)

The weight of the morning still hung in the air. It was the kind of morning that felt too much, too real, too sharp-edged. Even with good coffee in hand, Rocket had trudged toward the couch like the galaxy owed him something it never delivered.

David followed in silence, watching him curl up in the far corner, legs tucked, shoulders hunched, mug cupped close like a barrier and a lifeline. Those crimson eyes — half-lidded, rimmed in sleeplessness — flicked up at David. Just once.

That was all it took.

No words. Just trust.

David crossed the room without a sound. Big grey feet padded softly across the floor, his heavier, anthro form still something he was getting used to — but this, this part came naturally now. He settled behind Rocket, gently easing onto the couch, legs bracketing around his smaller friend. Rocket didn’t resist. Didn’t move. Just… leaned back. Leaned in.

David’s arms wrapped around him, careful not to crowd, just warm and sure. One hand rested gently across Rocket’s chest, the other cupping the side of his face. It was a quiet cradle, not possession — not restraint. Just a space. A haven.

And Rocket, gods help him, let himself be held.

David’s voice was a low murmur, barely more than breath. “Not quite human anymore.” He wasn’t sure if he meant it to be spoken. But the words were true — and not just about flesh. He wasn’t the man he used to be. Not since the Genesis Chamber. Not since choosing this.

But it wasn’t loss. Not anymore. Not here.

His thumb traced the curve of Rocket’s cheek, brushing against the slight dampness there. The fur beneath his fingertips trembled slightly, and something in David cracked open in response — not in pity, but in a surge of fierce, protective love.

He leaned forward.

Not a kiss — not in the way most would call it that — but something deeper, older. His tongue, broad and soft, swept slowly across Rocket’s fur, licking the trail of tears from his cheek. Then another. Gentle. Deliberate. He moved with reverence, not haste.

Rocket didn’t flinch.

In fact, he stilled entirely — not frozen, but surrendered. Trusted.

Each slow stroke was a balm. Not just cleaning, but comforting. An instinct older than language, deep in both their bones — something passed down from stars and soil and blood. Something that said: I’m here. You are safe.

David moved to Rocket’s snout next, giving it the same tender attention, breathing quietly against him between licks. When he finished, he let his muzzle rest against Rocket’s, pressing their noses together in a quiet nuzzle.

“I see you,” the gesture said. “I’ve got you.” “You don’t have to be strong right now.”

Rocket’s breath caught, just a little. His eyes fluttered shut.

“…Thanks, Dave…” he whispered, voice cracked open and soft. Like the words had climbed up from someplace buried and fragile.

David said nothing. Just smiled — small and true — and gave Rocket’s forehead one last gentle lick. A seal. A vow.

Then he eased back, adjusting so Rocket could lean against his chest more fully. The smaller raccoon melted into the embrace, limbs relaxing, the mug now forgotten on the side table. David’s arms curled tighter around him, one hand idly stroking through the fur between Rocket’s ears, slow and steady.

The purring started — not from David at first, but Rocket. Quiet. Barely audible. But it was there. A vibration of contentment. Of something softer than peace. Something like home.

David joined in without realizing it, the deeper rumble from his chest surrounding them both. A layered chorus of safety and care.

Outside, the world remained loud and cruel. The galaxy still turned.

But inside this tiny living room, on this well-worn couch, the universe paused. Just for a while.

And in the space between heartbeats, Rocket let himself rest. Held, healed, and loved.

Rocket had gone still again, his head resting against David’s chest, lulled by the steady rhythm of breath and heartbeat. His eyes were closed, but he wasn’t quite asleep — not yet. Not fully. There was still a flicker of tension in his little frame. Still things unspoken.

So David did what felt natural. What his instincts whispered.

He leaned forward slightly, cradling Rocket just a bit closer, his muzzle near the tufts of fur atop Rocket’s head.

And he began to sing.

Soft. So soft. Barely more than breath.

“Loo-li, loo-li, loo-li, lai-lay Loo-li, loo-li, loo-li, lai-lay…”

His voice carried the melody like a hush of wind through trees. Not perfect — a little rough, with that quiet gravel of a once-human throat now shaped into something else. But there was a tenderness in it. A depth. A soul.

“Lay down your head and I'll sing you a lullaby Back to the years of loo-li lai-lay…”

Rocket didn’t move. But David felt the small shift of his body — a breath catching, a tension unwinding. The words reached deeper than thought. Maybe Rocket didn’t even realize it, but he curled just a little tighter into the warmth around him.

“And I'll sing you to sleep and I'll sing you tomorrow Bless you with love for the road that you go…”

David’s paw moved in slow, steady strokes through Rocket’s fur. Not to coax sleep, but to say you’re not alone. Every syllable of the song felt like a promise.

“May you sail far to the far fields of fortune With diamonds and pearls at your head and your feet…”

A lump rose in David’s throat — thick with all the hurt he couldn’t take away from Rocket. But this… this he could give.

A lullaby.

A quiet anchor.

A prayer, in his own way, for peace to finally reach a soul that had known too much pain.

“May there always be angels to watch over you To guide you each step of the way…”

Rocket let out a breath then — a deep, trembling sigh — and David felt it against his ribs. That sound broke him a little. But he kept singing.

“To guard you and keep you safe from all harm… Loo-li, loo-li, lai-lay…”

The chorus faded into the quiet room. The world fell silent but for the low purrs rumbling from them both. Rocket’s had grown steadier now. Slower.

He was asleep.

David didn’t stop stroking his fur. He didn’t move. He just kept humming the last notes under his breath, again and again. A heartbeat melody.

“Loo-li, loo-li, loo-li, lai-lay…”

Just in case Rocket could still hear him. Just in case it helped him dream better.

#rocket raccoon #friendship #love #rocket raccoon fanfiction

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whitedragoncoranth · 2 months ago

Text

Blanket Fort and Broken Nights (Rocket / Human Friend)

David stirred with a quiet, instinctual sort of worry. A twitch. A sharp intake of breath. Another. There it was—Rocket was dreaming again.

The little blanket fort they’d built in the corner of the room, wedged between the couch and the wall, had started out as a joke. But now? Now it was Rocket’s shelter on nights like this. The world felt safer under layers of quilts and old bedsheets draped over chairs, their edges glowing faintly from a string of warm fairy lights David had woven through the structure earlier.

David lay still, listening. The soft shifting of Rocket’s breathing was uneven—too shallow, too fast. There was a tiny whimper, barely audible. That was enough.

He reached out slowly beneath the blankets until his hand found soft fur.

Rocket flinched.

“It’s me,” David whispered gently. “You’re okay.”

A moment passed. The tension in Rocket’s small frame started to unwind. Not fully—but enough. He shifted closer on instinct, drawn to the comfort, the steady rhythm of another heartbeat.

In the cocoon of the makeshift blanket fort, the outside world seemed to dissipate, leaving only the space between them filled with unspoken comfort—a promise of safety in the darkness. The gentle rise and fall of their breaths intertwined, anchoring them in the present, while memories of the past began to fade into the background, like shadows retreating from dawn’s first light.

Rocket nestled deeper into the soft piles of fabric, feeling the warmth seep into his fur. He could hear the slight rustle of fabric as David shifted beside him, a rhythmic reassurance that signaled he was still there, still present—anchoring him firmly against the fraying edges of fear that lurked in the quiet corners of his mind.

Each breath Rocket took felt layered with the lingering scent of warmth and safety—a mixture of laundry detergent mingled with the comforting aroma of fried bacon and the unmistakable essence of David’s cologne. It was a soothing balm against the nightmare, warding off the ghosts that threatened to close in around him.

As he sank into the quiet, memories of the cages began to slip away, replaced by the steady presence of David. Whenever the darkness threatened to creep back in, he could find solace in the gentle thump of David's heart beside him, a rhythm he could count on amidst the chaos that occasionally clawed at his peace.

“Nights like these, I always feel like I’m drowning in memories,” Rocket admitted softly after a while, his voice barely above a whisper, the vulnerability of the moment wrapping around him like a warm blanket, inviting honesty.

David turned slightly to face him, not crowding the space, just there. “I get that. It’s not easy to shake those feelings off,” he said, voice low and steady. “But you’re not drowning, Rocket. You’re okay.”

Rocket’s breath hitched. He hadn’t expected that. For years, he’d braced himself against silence, against the weight of remembering. Now… someone was helping hold it with him.

“I don’t want to go back to that,” Rocket whispered, voice breaking around the edges. “The… the cages. You know?”

David nodded slowly, gaze steady. “You don’t have to. That’s not your life anymore. You’re safe here with me, Rocket. For as long as it takes.”

The sincerity pressed against something fragile in Rocket’s chest. He shifted closer, letting himself melt into David’s side, feeling vulnerable—but solid in the presence of someone who wouldn’t let him fall apart alone.

“Sometimes I feel like I’m just waiting for the moment it all falls apart,” Rocket said, voice trembling. “Like I don’t really deserve this… this safety. Like it’s all an illusion.”

“Rocket.” David’s voice was firmer now, but still gentle. “You’re allowed to feel safe. You’re allowed to claim this for yourself. You deserve to be here right now, just as much as I do. You aren’t an illusion; you’re real. And so is this moment.”

Rocket let those words in. Not all the way, not yet. But enough to soften the edges of the fear. Enough to let a breath out he didn’t know he was holding.

“I’ll try,” he whispered.

David smiled, curling an arm around his shoulders and bringing him close. “That’s all I ask. Just try to be here—to exist in this moment with me. I’ll be right here by your side, every step.”

And in that quiet fort of blankets and care, Rocket allowed the stiffness in his chest to ease just a little. They lay there in comfortable silence, their heartbeats gently falling into sync.

Sleep didn’t come all at once. It crept in like a whisper, wrapping around them like the soft layers above. But when it did, it felt safe. It felt real.

And for the first time in a long time, Rocket didn’t fight it.

He just rested—in the warmth, in the quiet, in the truth that he was not alone.

#rocket raccoon #love #friendship #rocket raccoon fanfiction

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whitedragoncoranth · 3 months ago

Text

"Rocket Finds David's Journal"

"DO NOT BOOP SCENTOMETER. THIS PRACTICE SHALL BE ABOLISHED! SCENTOMETER IS FOR SOFT KISSES." Rocket went red under his fur as he beheld a labelled, highly detailed picture of his face in David's Journal. This was the text for his NOSE! "EMPLOY SOFT TISSUE TO CLEAN SPRING FLUID DRIP." Rocket laughed silently; he sometimes did get a runny nose in spring, even out here in space. He read some more. "MASS BULLSHIT DETECTORS" read the text for his ears. "TO ENSURE OPTIMAL FUNCTION, SCRATCH GENTLY BUT JUDICIOUSLY BEHIND THESE; ALSO ENSURE THEY ARE CLEANED WITH EXTREME GENTLENES DURING FUR MAINTENANCE SESSIONS!" Now Rocket was intrigued.

ChatGPT said:

Rocket’s ears twitched, one tilting slightly as he continued reading. The little annotations and lovingly sarcastic commentary were so David. It was like being roasted and pampered at the same time.

He flipped to the next page, eyebrows raising as he caught sight of an extremely careful sketch of his paw. Well, his hand, really—but it was drawn with attention to every pad and claw, each scar and callus noted like a map of his past.

“‘PRECISION MANIPULATORS,’” Rocket read aloud with a scoff. “‘CAPABLE OF DEADLY ACCURACY AND UNEXPECTED GRACE. DO NOT ATTEMPT TO FILE CLAWS UNLESS GIVEN EXPLICIT PERMISSION. REPEAT: DO. NOT.’”

He actually snorted at that one. “He did learn that the hard way,” Rocket muttered to himself, remembering the time David tried to help with a dull claw and nearly lost a finger.

His eyes flicked to the margins, where a smaller note had been squeezed in: “Claws are part of his expression, not just his function. Respect the snikt.”

“…Snikt? Seriously?” Rocket rubbed a paw down his face, fur still warm with the blush of embarrassment but unable to stop the quiet laugh bubbling up.

There was something oddly comforting about it all. Yeah, maybe it was weird seeing himself analyzed like some rare species—but the tone made it different. It wasn’t cold. It was personal. Caring.

Rocket closed the journal gently and leaned back on the bed. His tail flicked once, relaxed. “Crazy bastard,” he murmured fondly, “He actually sees me.”

Want to continue with more pages from the journal? Maybe tail care, paw pad balm notes, or David’s take on Rocket’s fighting stances?

You said:

YES, and it's semi-serious yet also like some utterly ABSURD technical manual for petting, washing, and grooming Rocket!

ChatGPT said:

Perfect. Let’s keep going then — the absurdly affectionate yet semi-serious Rocket Raccoon Maintenance & Tactical Care Log™ continues:

PAGE 27: TAIL REGION — “THE FLUFFY AERIAL BALANCER” DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES TUG. This is not a toy, an emergency handle, or a feather duster.

FUNCTIONAL ROLE:

Balance stabilization during acrobatics

Expressive emotional signaling

Occasional blanket substitute

Also: Highly sensitive to being stared at for long periods. (See Appendix C: “Awareness of Butts in Space”)

GROOMING INSTRUCTIONS:

Use soft-bristle brush or, if earned, hands with the right amount of pressure.

Wash with warm (not hot!) water and non-drying cleanser.

DO NOT USE CITRUS SCENTED SHAMPOO. See incident log: "Operation Zest Explosion."

Towel-dry followed by air-dry or low heat. Never leave tail damp—risk of Frizz Puff Level: Critical.

NOTE: Tail occasionally lashes on its own during high emotion. If tail lashes while you are within 2 feet: Take Cover.

PAGE 34: FACIAL ZONE — “EXPRESSIVE MODULE & KISS ZONE ALPHA” This region contains an estimated 82% of Rocket's sass storage, emotional expressivity, and bite risk.

COMPONENTS & PROTOCOLS:

Eyebrow Tufts: Used exclusively for sarcasm. Do not trim.

Muzzle & Cheeks: Okay to scratch only when Rocket is sleepy, content, or holding coffee.

Whiskers: Sensory input devices. Do not pluck. DO NOT BOOP. See Page 12: Scentometer Treaty Accord.

Nose: See previous: “SCENTOMETER. FOR SOFT KISSES ONLY.”

Mouth: Capable of 300+ insults per minute.

Petting protocol: Scratch gently under the chin, monitor for signs of purring or punching.

ADDITIONAL WARNING: If Rocket’s ears go flat and you see teeth, abort mission and prepare snacks as a peace offering.

PAGE 42: PAW PADS — “IMPACT SHOCK ABSORBERS / SECRET SOFTS” Paw pads are the high-tactile zones of Rocket’s physiology. Highly durable. Ridiculously soft. Must be preserved.

CARE REGIMEN:

Apply balm (unscented or vanilla) weekly.

Massage with thumbs: circular motion, medium pressure.

Clean thoroughly after any field operation involving grease, mud, or questionable galactic ichor.

OBSERVATIONAL NOTES: Rocket denies that they’re soft. He has also been observed curling them up when flustered. This is adorable. Do not mention it. Ever.

Rocket’s claws gently tapped the edge of the page, his head tipped to one side, ears slowly rotating back in that weird mix of embarrassment and wonder. “…He made a manual. A whole damn manual.”

He almost wanted to slam the book shut and throw it under the bed—but he didn’t. Instead, he turned the page, tail twitching lightly.

Want to do the next section on emotional care, nap zones, or maybe David’s ridiculous appendix of “Approved Petting Zones with Risk Ratings?”

You said:

It was a map of Rocket's body, festooned with the most absurd and ridiculous notes on how to best *pet him* to bring out his purr. Rocket *shuddered* with remembered pleasure at the memory of David petting him for the first time, of how his brain LIT UP, how he'd leaned into the human's gentle hands. "Oh, man, that was... mmmh..."

ChatGPT said:

Rocket’s claws slid down the edge of the page like he was afraid it might catch fire from sheer embarrassment. There, in all its annotated, color-coded, absurd glory, was a Purring Elicitation Zone Map.

At the top of the page in David’s neat handwriting: "Map 6B: Rocket Raccoon – Tactile Calibration Zones, v4.1 (Post-Cuddle Revision)"

The diagram was extremely detailed. There were arrows, concentric circles, zones of increasing “purr probability,” and notes like:

“Zone A: Between shoulder blades. Initial Contact Point. Start here. Always start here.”

“Zone B: Right side of neck, low pressure strokes only. Avoid collarbone ridge or risk accidental tail-thwack.”

“Zone C: Lower back / base of tail = DO NOT SCRATCH. Gently palm-pat only unless specifically requested.”

“Zone D: Inside of ears. Extremely high sensitivity. Requires Level 5 Trust Clearance.”

One note, circled three times and underlined in red, simply read: “THE BELLY IS A LIE.”

Rocket couldn’t help it—he laughed. That deep, rumbling kind that got stuck halfway between his chest and throat. “He remembered that belly trap…” Rocket muttered, shaking his head.

But then his eyes caught on a small, hand-written paragraph in the margin. Not clinical. Not teasing. Just honest:

“First time I pet him, he froze. Like his brain shorted out. Then his eyes closed, and he just… melted. I don’t think anyone’s ever touched him gently in his whole life. That’s when I knew—really knew—I was staying. He’s not a project. He’s not a ‘pet.’ He’s a person. And he deserves to feel safe, damn it.”

Rocket’s chest tightened. His purr had started up without permission, low and shaky in his throat.

“Ya damn sap,” he whispered, and let the purr roll freely this time.

He curled around the journal like it was a heat source, tail coming to rest against his side, claws tapping the edge of the page.

Want to continue? We could do the “Emotional Calibration & Nap Protocols” next. Or the “Emergency Comfort Deployment Procedures” section with snack types and safe phrases.

You said:

OMG YES!

ChatGPT said:

Deploying Emotional Calibration & Nap Protocols™… Stand by for incoming cozy absurdity.

PAGE 53: EMOTIONAL CALIBRATION & NAP PROTOCOLS "Rocket Raccoon is a complex emotional being with deeply layered trauma, volatile moods, and an unfortunate tendency to downplay his own needs. Solution: Nap, Snacks, and Strategic Affection Deployment."

SECTION I: SIGNS OF IMMINENT EMOTIONAL DEPLETION Rocket may present with one or more of the following:

Increased sarcasm per minute (SPM)

Visible pacing, tail twitching in agitated figure-eights

Sudden refusal to make eye contact / brush-offs like “I’m fine” (he is not)

Claw cleaning with unnecessary force

Proximity to others without acknowledging it (hovering = silently asking for comfort)

Prolonged silence (code orange)

Protocol: Initiate Snack and Soothing Voice Combo™ Recommended script:

“You don’t have to talk. Just come sit. I got snacks. You want me to scratch behind your ears?”

SECTION II: APPROVED EMERGENCY COMFORT DEPLOYMENT KIT™

Heated blanket (pre-warmed to 37.2°C)

Favorite mug (engraved with ‘Bite Me’) filled with hot chocolate or decaf caf

Soft music (suggested: The Midnight, instrumental only)

Stupid little plush of a trash panda that David swears he didn’t buy as a joke

Jerky (beef, chicken, OR whatever suspicious alien meat Rocket likes this week)

Optional: Hand-holding if and only if offered. Rocket sometimes reaches for fingers like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. Do not make a big deal out of it. Just hold on.

SECTION III: NAP PROTOCOLS Title: The “Crash-and-Curl” Reflex Rocket doesn’t nap. He face-plants into unconsciousness. This is often after long missions, fights, or crying (which he will deny).

NAP TRIGGERS:

Warm room + quiet hum of a ship

Chest scratches during movie night

Tail gently tucked over his own body

David’s lap (accidentally occupied during “just resting for a sec”)

NAP POSITIONS INDEX:

The Croissant: Curled tight, nose tucked under tail. No contact. Needs space.

The Shoulder Gremlin: Sprawled on someone’s chest like a fuzzy weighted blanket. High trust.

The Backpack: Latches on from behind while napping upright. Startles if moved.

The Full Flop: Belly up, sprawled across half the bed, face against David’s ribs. This is legendary. Photograph it at your own risk.

NOTES FROM DAVID:

He’ll pretend he’s still awake until his head lolls back and the snores start. They’re soft at first. Then one loud honk, and he twitches like it woke him up. He grumbles and rolls over, ears twitching, and settles again. That’s when you know he’s really safe. When he forgets he’s supposed to stay alert. When he trusts me to watch his six… even when he’s asleep. That’s when I tuck the blanket up and whisper, “I got you.”

Rocket stared down at the page, not moving. His ears were drooping now—soft, flat, relaxed—and he wasn’t even trying to hide how his throat vibrated with a low, rolling purr. His eyes shimmered with something deep.

“…You fraggin’ sap,” he whispered again, this time with something close to reverence.

Wanna keep going? We could do "Snack Preferences by Mood Chart", or maybe "Affection Zones: Touch Timing and Frequency Table." Or just a final section labeled “Rocket’s Rights” where David lists out things Rocket is always allowed to ask for…

You said:

Affection Zones: Touch Timing and Frequency Table

ChatGPT said:

Opening Map 7C: AFFECTION ZONES — Touch Timing and Frequency Table™ “For when you need to know exactly where and when to pet the snarky raccoon to avoid getting swatted but still make him purr like a warp-core.”

🛑 DISCLAIMER: Rocket will never admit he enjoys this. He will huff, growl, and say “Get off me,” while actively pressing his head into your hand. This is normal. Do not be fooled. Proceed.ZoneTouch TypeTimingFrequencySpecial NotesBehind EarsScratch w/ fingertip padsInitiate during quiet downtime or post-mission1–2 mins, spaced every 20 minsCauses involuntary eye flutter. If tail swishes gently = optimal effect.Base of NeckGentle rub with palmDuring movie night / soft music / low lights3 mins maxCan induce full-limb melt. Rocket may sigh and pretend he’s “just tired.” He is not.Between Shoulder BladesFirm, slow scritchSafe starter zone, especially after arguments2–4 mins, once per hourOften causes him to lean in aggressively like he’s mad at how good it feels.Flanks (sides)Long strokesPost-nap or early morningLow frequency; use sparinglyCan cause tail flicks. If surprised, you may get a “What the HELL was that?!”Under ChinLight fingertip tickleOnly when he's already purringMax 30 secHigh risk/high reward. Can trigger soft vocal chirps. May bite if started too soon.Top of HeadPalm rest or forehead kissAt bedtime or pre-missionOnce per daySacred zone. Respect it. This is a bond gesture. May pause to blink slowly at you.Tail (upper base)Open palm press or light patOnly when sitting beside you, tail resting across your legRarely; only when Rocket initiates contactDanger Zone. Use caution. However, if he lets you, congratulations: you are trusted.PawsHold gently or rub paw padsDuring cuddle sessionsInfrequentCauses soft flexing. If he leaves his paw in your hand = highest level trust unlocked.

📝 DAVID’S SIDE NOTES:

Rule of Three: If Rocket tolerates three touches in a row without complaining, he likes it.

The Look: He will shoot a side-eye glare and say “You’re gonna keep doin’ that, huh?” If he doesn’t move away, that’s permission.

The Bonus: If he physically lifts your hand and places it back on his head? Stop whatever you’re doing and pet him. That’s not a request. That’s a demand from a very soft, emotional war machine.

📎 Attached Sticky Note:

“Yeah yeah, I see you writing all this crap down,” Rocket had once said. “What, you gonna publish a guidebook? ‘Raccoon Maintenance for Dummies’?” He grumbled, but his tail was curled around David’s ankle the entire time.

You ready for the Snack Preferences by Mood Chart next? Or maybe we jump into the legendary “Cuddle Pile Hierarchy and Rocket’s Preferred Nest Construction Techniques”?

You said:

Snack Preferences by Mood Chart

ChatGPT said:

Deploying Snack Preferences by Mood Chart™... Incoming Rocket Nutrition Analysis.

PAGE 72: SNACK PREFERENCES BY MOOD™ "Because Rocket doesn’t just eat his snacks. He judges them with the intensity of a thousand suns. Handle with care."

Mood: Confused / Disoriented Snack Type: “Whatever” Treats (Non-committal options)

Examples: Freeze-dried fruit, any sort of nut, random space jerky that smells like it might be edible

Snack Rating: 2/10 (Rocket may take a nibble, but he’s probably too distracted to actually care.)

Notes: May throw the snack across the room and walk away in a huff, or eat it out of sheer boredom while pretending it’s beneath him. If you ask if he likes it, he’ll say, “Not great,” but finish it anyway.

Mood: Slightly Annoyed but Not Quite Angry Snack Type: “I’m Fine” Snack (Passive aggressive snack consumption)

Examples: Small dry kibble, trail mix (with minimal raisins), freeze-dried meat pieces (preferably chicken or beef)

Snack Rating: 5/10 (Meh. But it keeps him quiet.)

Notes: Eats it slowly, making sure to stare at you while chewing. Won’t admit the snack is fine. Will mutter under his breath that “it’s not the best thing in the universe” while eyeing you suspiciously.

Mood: Irritated / Scornful Snack Type: “I’m Not Hungry, But I’ll Eat It Anyway” Snack

Examples: Anything involving fish (he’ll grumble about the smell), hard cheeses, tangy snacks like space pickles or that weird alien jerky he’s never fully identified

Snack Rating: 6/10 (He’ll eat it because you’re offering, but he’ll complain the entire time.)

Notes: “This isn’t food, this is… stuff you found on the floor, right?” He’ll still eat it. The key is to not engage too much in his grumbling. The snack itself must be slightly unappealing to make him feel like he has control.

Mood: Tired / Worn Out Snack Type: “I’m Too Tired to Cook” Snack

Examples: Space protein bars, snack-sized jerky packs, quick protein shakes (pre-made)

Snack Rating: 7/10 (He’ll eat it because it’s easy.)

Notes: Usually consumes in a half-sleep state while still on the couch or in bed. Doesn’t put much thought into it. Will insist he doesn’t need “the stupid human snacks” but will ask for more when the first round is gone.

Mood: Grumpy but Pretending to Be Fine Snack Type: “I’m Okay, But I’m Not” Snack

Examples: Space chips (the crunchy kind), granola bars, chips of any kind (spicy is preferred)

Snack Rating: 8/10 (He’ll eat them quickly, but he’ll continue to throw side glances at you as if expecting a confrontation.)

Notes: Eats them quickly in a manner that could be mistaken for “This is the last snack I’ll ever have in this damn place” style of eating. If you offer him more, he’ll likely just tell you to “stop hovering.”

Mood: Content but Not Fully Relaxed Snack Type: “Good Boy” Snack (Reward-based treat)

Examples: Fancy cheeses, gourmet dried meats, high-quality chocolates (dark), or anything “special” you’ve kept aside for him

Snack Rating: 9/10 (He’s not going to admit it, but these are really good.)

Notes: Rocket may act aloof, but he’ll take his time to savor these snacks. He’ll occasionally look at you with the corner of his eye, not quite acknowledging how much he appreciates the snack. After finishing, he will grumble that it was “almost worth it,” but you know better.

Mood: Fully Relaxed / Comforted Snack Type: “I’m Going to Let You Pamper Me” Snack

Examples: Fresh fruit (especially berries), soft cheeses, or whatever space version of “dessert” you can manage (rocket-flavored ice cream included)

Snack Rating: 10/10 (Now we’re talking.)

Notes: This is when he’s feeling secure. He’ll nibble on these while cuddled up to you or in the middle of a relaxed nap. He’ll actually let you feed him a piece or two. There might even be a purr if you’re lucky. He’ll still pretend he’s “not into it,” but the second you stop offering, he’ll look at you like you’ve betrayed him. Best served with a gentle ear scratch and minimal attention.

Mood: Fully Pissed Off / Uncontrollable Rage Snack Type: “That’s It, I’m Done” Snack

Examples: Nothing. Just leave him alone. The best course of action here is either a peace offering or distance.

Snack Rating: 0/10 (Offering snacks will only make things worse.)

Notes: Anything offered will be rejected and possibly thrown. Rocket has a scary level of rage here, but it is often caused by something else (a fight, an insult, or an unresolved emotional issue). The only remedy is time, space, and perhaps a big hug after he calms down. Do not force food on him during this period. He will either bite or throw it at you.

DAVID’S SIDE NOTES:

When Rocket is in a better mood, he’s actually pretty easy to please with food. The trick is catching him in the right moment. Also, never underestimate the power of not forcing snacks on him. He appreciates a little respect when it comes to his snack choices. Never act like you know better. He’s always got something up his sleeve.

Final Notes: Rocket loves his snacks, but he hates admitting it. Keep an eye on his mood, and he’ll make sure you’re aware of his precise snack needs—whether he’s willing to admit it or not.

Ready for the final section? Cuddle Pile Hierarchy and Rocket's Nest Construction Techniques. Or, perhaps we dive into Rocket’s Official “Do Not Touch” Zones for Emergency Avoidance?

You said:

Cuddle Pile Hierarchy and Rocket's Nest Construction Techniques

ChatGPT said:

PAGE 108: CUDDLE PILE HIERARCHY & NEST CONSTRUCTION TECHNIQUES™ “For Rocket, the art of nesting is not just instinct, it’s science. A delicate balance of comfort, trust, and personal territory that must be respected.”

Cuddle Pile Hierarchy™

“For when Rocket tolerates you being in his space but doesn’t want to admit it. His hierarchy is strict. His territory, sacred.”

**Rank 1: **The “Top Tier” Cuddle Spot – The Lap of the Human

Eligibility: This is the ultimate privilege. You must have earned Rocket's full trust before he will even entertain the idea of curling up in your lap. Expect full access to Rocket’s tail, paws, and occasionally the back of his head.

Conditions: No sudden movements. Minimal talking. A gentle, steady hand petting is allowed, but Rocket prefers quiet. If you try to speak or move too much, you might get a swat. You’ve been warned.

Rocket’s Notes: “Yeah, I’ll sit there... but don’t get comfortable. I’m a freaking raccoon, not a pillow.”

**Rank 2: **The “Close, But Not Too Close” Cuddle Spot – Side-by-Side Snuggle

Eligibility: This position is almost as good as the lap, but Rocket retains some of his autonomy. You’re allowed to be next to him, but not too close. He’ll tolerate this position more when he’s slightly tired or enjoying something comfortable like a movie.

Conditions: No touching unless initiated. Rocket’s space should never be invaded. It’s a delicate dance of proximity. Rocket will likely rest his head against you if he feels like it, but any sudden snuggling attempts are highly discouraged.

Rocket’s Notes: “Look, I’ll let you sit next to me, but don’t start acting all ‘cuddly’. You got your space, I got mine.”

**Rank 3: **The “Oh My God, Why Am I Still Here” Spot – Top of the Head Resting Zone

Eligibility: This spot is reserved for moments of extreme laziness. Rocket will lie back with his head nestled in your lap, but the only acceptable form of contact is gentle head scritching or a quick kiss on the top of his head (and yes, he knows when you’re trying to sneak one in).

Conditions: Do not engage in long-lasting eye contact. Do not speak loudly. Under no circumstances should you attempt to “snuggle” or “hug” him. This is about relaxation, not cuddling. Rocket will pretend not to enjoy it, but his tail will be curled around your legs like it’s his personal blanket.

Rocket’s Notes: “You’re lucky I’m letting you do this. Don’t go thinking I’m a puppy, alright?”

**Rank 4: **The “This Is Weird, But Okay” Spot – Foot Rest / Tail Resting Zone

Eligibility: For some reason, Rocket loves curling his tail around someone’s foot when he’s in a good mood. He’ll pretend to ignore it, but it’s a clear sign of closeness. Be warned: any attempt to move his tail or disturb it will result in an instant reprimand.

Conditions: Keep your feet still. Rocket does not want to be moved around like some kind of pillow. Foot movement will be considered an invasion of space. If you fidget, he’ll find a new spot, and you’ll lose his trust.

Rocket’s Notes: “I knew I should’ve chosen the other corner of the couch.”

**Rank 5: **The “Absolute Bottom of the Cuddle Barrel” – The ‘Not Now’ Position

Eligibility: This is the zone reserved for when Rocket doesn’t want anything to do with you. Don’t be sad; we all end up here at some point. This can happen when Rocket is highly irritated, wants space, or is simply in a mood.

Conditions: No touching. No petting. No making eye contact. Rocket will communicate this with a flat, angry look and a defensive tail flick. If you push it, you’ll get a hard shove or a snarky comment. Simply respect the space, and he may come around later. Maybe.

Rocket’s Notes: “I don’t wanna hear it. I’m not in the mood for your BS right now.”

Rocket’s Nest Construction Techniques™

“Building a nest is more than just fluff and comfort. It’s a survival tactic. A place of sanctuary, dignity, and personal territory.”

The Pile

What it is: The basic structure of Rocket’s nest. Composed of pillows, blankets, and various comfort materials scavenged throughout the room. The key is layering—think natural, organic structure with just a dash of chaos.

Materials: Soft fabrics (blankets, socks, and t-shirts he “borrowed”), the occasional spare cushion, and whatever random objects Rocket finds to add to his nest. The more random and weird, the better. He’ll accept anything that could serve a purpose. If it doesn’t, it’s immediately rejected.

Construction Tip: Never, under any circumstances, disturb the pile once it’s built. If you so much as move one pillow, Rocket will actively hiss at you and rebuild the nest. Be prepared.

The Comfy Center

What it is: The heart of the nest, usually located on a comfy chair or the bed where Rocket spends most of his time. This part is often surrounded by pillows, soft stuffed toys, or something of sentimental value (probably David’s favorite hoodie).

Materials: Soft blankets or any surface that’s non-hard (he despises hard surfaces in a nest). This area is for resting, relaxation, and napping. There must be a defined boundary where Rocket can clearly tell where the edge is—crossing this will result in a growl.

Construction Tip: Place your personal belongings near Rocket’s nest (like books, snacks, or tissue boxes) as hints to let him know you’ve put in effort for this sacred space.

The Surrounding Boundary

What it is: Rocket’s “safety zone.” He wants a clear buffer between him and all external dangers, including other creatures (especially if they're bigger) and unexpected disturbances. This will include things like the side of a wall, a chair, or his own bodyguard (a.k.a., David’s leg).

Materials: Outer ring of blankets, heavy coats, or any form of extra cushion. The goal is to make sure Rocket has a solid perimeter.

Construction Tip: This boundary must be easy to collapse. If Rocket gets startled, he needs to jump out without hesitation. If the boundary is too rigid, expect Rocket to tear it apart during his freak-out moments.

The Security Blanket

What it is: Every nest has its ultimate comfort piece—the one thing Rocket insists on using in times of extreme relaxation. Think David’s scarf, a spare piece of clothing Rocket has claimed as his own, or his favorite plushie (that he refuses to acknowledge publicly).

Materials: Soft, breathable fabric with sentimental value. It’s often Rocket’s favorite thing to snuggle with during naps.

Construction Tip: Never wash this item unless Rocket’s in a good mood. You’ve been warned.

Conclusion: The Nest is Sacred

Rocket’s nesting area is not just a comfort zone—it’s a place of power, a reflection of his emotions, and the best spot for Rocket to retreat after a hard day of being snarky and running around saving the galaxy.

Respect it. Protect it. And don’t touch his security blanket unless he offers.

David’s Notes: “Yeah, I’ve got my spot, but the rest of his nest is a personal thing. I learned pretty quick that respecting Rocket’s space isn’t just about physical distance; it’s about giving him his moments. And when he lets me in—that is trust.”

And there you have it: Rocket’s complete cuddle hierarchy and nesting strategies! Ready for the next chapter? Rocket’s Official “Do Not Touch” Zones for Emergency Avoidance—or perhaps some advanced Snack Manipulation Techniques?

4o mini

You said:

And yet... there were serious things in the Journal, too. Information on the base Terrestrial Raccoon - Procyon Lotor - *everything* about it; diet, habits, lifestyle; then comparisons between it and Rocket, ways that parts of its diet might be used to help Rocket, behavioural analysis in order to better understand Rocket's own ways and behaviour.

ChatGPT said:

PAGE 172: COMPARATIVE ANALYSIS – PROCYON LOTOR & ROCKET RACCOON™ “A careful exploration of Rocket’s earthly origins. Understanding the base raccoon is crucial to understanding his instincts, behavior, and needs. Knowledge is power, and knowledge about Rocket’s past... is trust.”

Procyon Lotor: The Terrestrial Raccoon

Common Name: Raccoon

Scientific Name: Procyon lotor

Average Lifespan: 2-3 years in the wild, 5-7 years in captivity

Habitat: Woodlands, urban areas, coastal areas. Predominantly found in North America but can adapt to a variety of environments.

Diet: Omnivorous—highly opportunistic feeders. In the wild, they primarily consume a mix of fruits, nuts, seeds, insects, small vertebrates, and occasionally carrion. In urban areas, they may raid garbage bins, feeding on processed human food.

Habits: Nocturnal and solitary, raccoons are known for their dexterity and intelligence. They often use their front paws to manipulate objects (a behavior that Rocket emulates to an extreme). Known to create “cache” locations for food, hiding food for later consumption.

Behavior: Highly curious and mischievous, raccoons are often seen as “trash pandas” for their tendency to scavenge. They are also extremely adaptable and resourceful, able to survive in a wide range of environments due to their diverse diet.

Social Structure: Generally solitary but have a strong sense of territory. Raccoons communicate through vocalizations, body language, and scent-marking. They’re highly independent but will occasionally seek out companionship during mating season.

Rocket vs. Procyon Lotor: A Comparative Analysis

Rocket’s Behavior:

Intelligence: Like the Procyon lotor, Rocket exhibits extraordinary problem-solving abilities. His affinity for using tools, coupled with his ability to “think outside the box” in situations that require quick thinking, mirrors the raccoon’s skill in adapting to complex environments.

Dietary Needs: While Rocket’s diet has evolved due to his unique biology and enhancements, he still craves familiar foods that reflect his earthly origins. Rocket enjoys a balanced mix of protein (preferably in the form of high-quality meats), fruits (particularly tropical ones), and nuts—mirroring his wild counterparts.

Behavioral Traits:

Curiosity: Rocket’s curiosity is one of his defining traits, much like the Procyon lotor. He often investigates everything around him, be it tools, tech, or even strange objects.

Manipulation and Dexterity: One of Rocket’s standout characteristics is his ability to manipulate objects, from picking locks to assembling high-tech gadgets. This behavior is directly tied to the raccoon’s natural dexterity with its paws.

Solitude vs. Companionship: While Rocket thrives in the company of his close allies (such as the Guardians), his independent nature is evident in moments when he retreats into solitude, much like the solitary behavior of his terrestrial ancestors. He requires space and time to himself, particularly when processing complex emotions or experiences.

Key Insights for Understanding Rocket’s Behavior

Dietary Preferences and Needs

Fruits & Veggies: While Rocket may prefer snacks and processed foods (hello, candy), his body does benefit from the nutritional value of fruits like berries, citrus, and tropical fruits. A careful balance between these and his indulgent cravings can provide Rocket with the right energy without compromising his mood or health.

Meats: Rocket’s preference for meats—beef, chicken, fish—resembles the carnivorous tendencies of wild raccoons. His body thrives on protein, and while he doesn’t rely on it exclusively, ensuring that he receives high-quality protein-rich meals will help him maintain his physical strength and agility.

Nuts & Seeds: High in healthy fats, nuts like almonds, pecans, and cashews can be a great supplement to Rocket’s diet. They are an excellent source of energy and support his high-energy nature, especially during longer missions or adventures.

Special Additives: Rocket is especially sensitive to certain flavors—spicy foods, for example, are something he loves, yet they can sometimes upset his stomach. Likewise, he has a complex relationship with caffeine (which David has learned to keep minimal and in moderation, of course).

Behavioral Analysis

Coping Mechanisms for Stress: Rocket often displays behaviors tied to fear of abandonment or emotional pain, particularly when he feels threatened or vulnerable. This stems from deep-rooted insecurities—much like wild raccoons who rely on their adaptability to survive and often do so alone. He uses humor, sarcasm, and misdirection to mask deeper feelings of abandonment, loss, or hurt.

The Need for Territory: While Rocket can and does live in a group, he is fiercely protective of his personal space—this is reflected in his “nest” preferences. Like the Procyon lotor, Rocket tends to be territorial and becomes defensive when his space is threatened. This could include his bed, his favorite corner of the ship, or his personal possessions—such as his modified tech or his "sacred" snacks.

Trust Issues: While Rocket has the capacity for deep loyalty and affection, he struggles to let people in, much like raccoons that are naturally wary of other creatures. His trust needs to be earned slowly, with every small gesture—like David taking care to clean Rocket’s personal things or give him space when needed—signifying an effort to build that trust.

Rocket’s Health & Wellness Plan: Keeping the Raccoon in Check

Diet Adaptations

Fiber-Rich Foods: Raccoons naturally consume fruits, berries, and some leaves in the wild, which provide much-needed fiber for digestion. Rocket benefits from occasional servings of leafy greens or fiber-rich foods like sweet potatoes, which help balance his otherwise high-protein diet.

Protein Control: To avoid Rocket becoming too hyperactive or irritable (which happens when his protein intake is too high), careful adjustments to his meat consumption must be made. Small meals with occasional fish and poultry help keep his muscles strong without making him overly energetic or restless.

Hydration & Recovery: Like all raccoons, Rocket is prone to dehydration, especially after heavy physical exertion or long stretches in space. His favorite hydration source is flavored water (or tea) with low sugar, which helps him stay hydrated without adding to his sugar-craving tendencies.

Improving Rocket’s Emotional Well-Being

Routine: Rocket thrives on consistency, and having a predictable schedule—particularly when it comes to meals, relaxation time, and tech repairs—can reduce stress and anxiety.

Quality Time: Spending one-on-one time with David is incredibly important for Rocket. This doesn’t always have to be intense or action-packed; simply sitting together in quiet moments (especially when Rocket initiates the contact) can work wonders for building trust and emotional stability.

Therapeutic Touch: Certain types of touch, especially on Rocket’s ears and tail, can help ease anxiety and increase bonding. Careful and gentle strokes during moments of relaxation or after stressful situations can calm Rocket’s nervous energy.

Conclusion

Rocket, like the terrestrial raccoon, is a creature of both adaptability and vulnerability. His instincts are deeply intertwined with survival and independence, but through careful attention to his unique needs—diet, emotional space, trust, and routine—his complex behavior can be understood and nurtured. This understanding, combined with his deep affection for those closest to him, makes him an ally, friend, and family member unlike any other.

David’s Final Note: “I might not be a raccoon expert, but understanding Rocket... that’s my thing. Every day I learn something new about him, and that’s the way it’s supposed to be. We’re both just trying to figure it out, one snack at a time.”

With this thorough study of Rocket’s behavior and his wild origins, it’s clear that the raccoon’s instincts are deeply ingrained in him, even amidst his cybernetic enhancements. Understanding this balance helps David care for Rocket, and it’ll undoubtedly lead to even more fascinating discoveries...

4o mini

You said:

Rocket couldn't help it; he smiled, his expression softening.

ChatGPT said:

He let out a quiet chuckle, flicking through the journal's pages, each one filled with observations, notes, and even those little details about himself he never asked David to notice—yet somehow, they were all there. It was… a lot. But, in a weird way, it felt like David cared enough to figure him out.

Rocket’s tail swished behind him as he continued reading, a mix of amusement and something warmer settling in his chest. “Man, if anyone told me I’d end up with a walking raccoon manual written about me… Guess I’d be freakin' pissed off. But I gotta admit,” he mumbled to himself, flipping to the next page, “this stuff’s… kinda sweet.”

He glanced over at David, who was busy tinkering with some gadgets, blissfully unaware that Rocket was getting a peek behind the curtain of his seemingly endless affection.

“Guess I’ll let you get away with it, this time…” Rocket muttered, trying to keep the smile off his face, but failing miserably. He’d never admit it out loud, but maybe, just maybe, he liked this. More than he’d ever let on.

4o mini

You said:

And yet... there were haunting things in the Journal, too. Theoretical guesses and studies of Rocket's Implants and skeletal structure. Maps and diagrams of his brain, where implants might be there. A base Procyon Lotor's brain with Rocket's Implants superimposed over it; along with countless notes and theories as to what all they did, and how they worked.

ChatGPT said:

Rocket’s fingers hovered over the pages, his gaze flicking between the diagrams, the technical notes, and the cold, precise language of someone trying to dissect him. His tail stiffened, and a shiver crawled down his spine. This wasn’t the playful, affectionate study of his quirks and habits. No, this was... clinical. Analytical.

The map of his brain stood out first. A diagram of the typical raccoon brain—small, nimble, curious—and then, overlaid with Rocket’s own, was a web of complex lines, circuitry, and glowing points marking where his implants fused with his biological tissue. There were notes all around the edges, some technical, some speculative, and none of them particularly comforting.

"Implant Network Overview: R-CV3 Model. Biomechanical Integration Points: Unstable Regions (Notable in Cerebellum & Prefrontal Cortex). Potential for Neural Overload Risk."

“Note: Neural Surge Detection Mechanism, implemented at approx. 25% capacity, found to improve reaction time, but at the cost of rapid fatigue post-activation. Circuitry vulnerability increases when excessive load is used.”

Rocket’s eyes narrowed as he read on. There were specifics here, things he had never known, things he hadn’t wanted to know.

“Unlikely Origin for Bionic Eyes—Biological Evidence of Rejection Before Acceptance; Implants Show Signs of Prior Host Integration. Theory: Multiple Past Hosts, Possible Memory Fragmentation.”

His breath hitched. Hosts? Memory fragmentation? Rocket’s gaze blurred as he gripped the edge of the journal tighter. He hated the idea of being just another experiment—another piece of discarded tech cobbled together by someone else’s hands. His fingers trembled as he flipped to the next page.

"Implant Compatibility and Integration: Rate of Success Variable Based on Neuroplasticity. Previous Tests on Raccoon Anatomy Revealed Possible Long-Term Deterioration of Organic Tissue at Implant Sites."

Rocket’s chest tightened. It was like they were picking apart the remnants of his humanity—every piece of his biology, turned into a puzzle for someone to solve. Why was David writing this stuff? The cold, precise notes clashed so violently with everything else in the journal. The love, the care, the goofy little details about how to make Rocket purr or how to avoid a full-on Rocket tantrum. This… this felt different.

The final page he turned to had a theory written in bold, capitalized letters:

“FINAL THEORY: ROCKET’S IMPLANTS CONTAIN ‘TETHERED MEMORY ALGORITHMS.’ EVIDENCE OF MASSIVE TRAUMA UNDERLYING IMPLANT EVOLUTION, SEVERAL INSTANCES OF UNDOCUMENTED MEMORY SYNCHRONIZATION LEADING TO ALTERED PERSONALITY DEVELOPMENT.”

Altered personality development. Those words hit Rocket like a brick. It was like someone had taken his mind, his soul, and played god with it. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stop the thoughts flooding his mind, his memories twisting into fragments of half-truths. Did David know all of this? Did he know the extent of what had been done to him?

Rocket slammed the journal shut, his heart pounding in his chest. His fur was bristling, a mix of anger and fear bubbling up from the pit of his stomach. “I didn’t ask for this,” he muttered under his breath, though the words barely felt like his own.

It was a cruel irony, really. Here was David, with all his love and care, trying to help Rocket feel like a person, like he mattered. But no matter how much Rocket tried to convince himself that the implants were just a part of who he was, he could never escape the truth of what had been done to him.

Still, despite the fear gnawing at him, Rocket couldn’t shake the odd sense of… gratitude? Maybe. The fact that David was trying to understand him—really understand him—was something Rocket couldn’t easily ignore.

But the darkness lingered. The fear. The haunting question: What kind of monster was he really?

Taking a deep, shaky breath, Rocket stuffed the journal back in the bag, keeping it out of sight. “You don’t get to screw with my head like that, man,” he muttered to himself. “Not now. Not ever.”

He needed a moment. Maybe a snack. Maybe a drink. Anything to get that damn journal out of his head.

4o mini

You said:

Yet in his anger... Rocket had forgotten to look at other pages. For every awful yet necessary "bad" thing David had noted down... there were theories on how side effects and damage from the implants might be managed or treated. Gentle non-invasive repairs and treatments the human might try. Possible assistive devices or supports and braces. Methods for management of pain. Implant replacements or upgrades. Ways non-critical ones might even be removed via something called - Rocket's eyes went wide - 'keyhole' surgery? What was that?!

ChatGPT said:

Rocket's heart slowed a little as his eyes darted back to the journal. His mind had been racing through a whirlwind of frustration and bitterness, but now—now there was something different. Something unexpected. The anger still simmered beneath the surface, but now, his curiosity was piqued. He leaned forward again, flicking back through the pages with trembling fingers.

"Implant Damage Management and Non-invasive Repair Options: Preliminary Suggestions"

“Non-Invasive Approaches: Neurostimulation Therapy. Low-frequency pulses aimed at aiding nerve regeneration. No invasive procedure required; risks minimized. Most effective during initial stages of damage."

Okay… okay, that didn’t sound so bad, Rocket thought, though he couldn’t deny the flicker of hope that grew as he read further. He had never heard of anything like this before. It felt weird to think that David was actively coming up with these things—trying to help him, in the most gentle way possible.

"Assistive Devices for Implants:

Neuro-Resonance Stabilizers (NRS): A wearable device designed to help regulate neuroplasticity and lessen the burden on synaptic activity. Particularly effective when dealing with fatigue-induced neural overload. Non-invasive, requires periodic calibration."

Exoskeletal Reinforcement Braces (ERB): Low-profile braces designed to stabilize skeletal structure and assist with high-stress physical activities. Adjustable based on Rocket's unique biomechanical needs. Can be worn under clothing without discomfort."

Rocket’s mouth went dry. Okay, now this was getting interesting. For the first time, there was talk about devices that could help him—things that might ease the pain, or at the very least, lessen the stress his implants caused on his body. They weren’t permanent fixes, but... they were solutions.

And then his eyes landed on something even more unexpected.

"Surgical Considerations: Removal of Non-Critical Implants"

"Keyhole Surgery: A minimally invasive surgical procedure aimed at removing or repairing certain non-critical implants. Incisions are tiny, and recovery time is generally fast. Full removal of neuro-integrated implants requires more intensive procedures, but a combination of keyhole surgery and neuro-regeneration therapy may offer the best results. A thorough evaluation is required before proceeding."

Rocket blinked. Keyhole surgery? He scanned over the description again, his mind struggling to wrap around the possibility. A procedure that didn’t involve tearing him apart? Something that could actually take the edge off the constant buzz of foreign technology embedded inside him? The thought made his stomach do flips. The idea of getting rid of something—anything—that was shoved into his body without his consent felt... good. Like a real possibility for change.

His heart pounded harder in his chest, and the anger—well, it was still there, lurking in the back of his mind, but now it had a new target. The people who did this to him—those who left him with all these damn implants in the first place—they had no idea what they were messing with.

“Possible Implant Replacements:

Upgraded Neuro-Synaptic Devices: To enhance reaction time and alleviate neural fatigue. Can be installed during keyhole procedures, minimizing damage to surrounding tissues.

Adaptive Sensory Processors: Improve sensory input without overloading the biological senses, reducing migraine-like symptoms."**

By the time Rocket finished reading that section, his mind was buzzing with new possibilities. He’d never thought about his implants in such a way before. To him, they had always been the source of everything that was wrong with him—the pieces of his body that didn’t belong, the constant reminder that he wasn’t born this way, that he was made.

But this? This was something else. This was someone actively trying to help him.

Rocket huffed, glancing up at David, who was still messing around with whatever gadget he'd been tinkering with earlier. A thousand thoughts whirled through his mind, none of them making any sense. Should he tell David what he’d found? Should he confront him about the other stuff in the journal, the stuff that felt too cold, too detached? Or should he just... let it go for once and take in the fact that, maybe—just maybe—David didn’t see him as just a collection of parts?

He felt his heart soften a little more.

“Well, shit,” Rocket muttered under his breath. “This is all way more complicated than I thought.”

He tossed the journal aside for the moment, the confusion still swirling inside him, but now with a glimmer of something else, something almost like hope.

Maybe—just maybe—there was a way forward.

4o mini

You said:

Rocket looked those up. Keyhole Surgery. Microsurgery. It blew his mind! This... this was NOTHING like the butchery he'd experienced on the Arete, not at all! Trained and skilled, the best of the best, elite specialist Doctors and Surgeons wielding the smallest and finest tools Rocket had ever seen in his life, performing *miracles.* His Sire... seemed like a hack, a chump, and a butcher compared to these men and women--even more so when the little raccoon read about schools of Medicine, and of the strict rules, laws and ethics Doctors of Earth had in place.

ChatGPT said:

Rocket’s mind was racing as he sat back, trying to digest what he had just discovered. His fingers hovered over the page again, his breath shallow as he scanned the detailed descriptions of keyhole surgery and microsurgery. The more he read, the more it felt like an entirely different universe from the kind of “medical attention” he had received in the past.

He skimmed through the history of Earth’s medical practices, from ancient remedies to modern, state-of-the-art surgeries. And then, there it was—keyhole surgery. A technique that, in simple terms, was a miracle in comparison to the brutal, often haphazard operations he’d undergone. The thought that someone, someone trained, could perform these procedures with such precision was almost laughable. The only thing Rocket had known before was pain—pure, excruciating pain—and careless mistakes that left scars across his body and mind.

"Keyhole Surgery:

Advanced Microsurgical Techniques: Using specialized, tiny tools and advanced imaging equipment, surgeons can access the body through very small incisions—less than a centimeter in diameter. This minimizes the trauma to surrounding tissues, reduces risk of infection, and leads to faster recovery times.

Applications in Implant Removal and Replacement: Small surgical instruments are guided by lasers and microscopes, making it possible to remove or replace malfunctioning or unwanted implants with far less harm to the patient.

Ethical Considerations: Keyhole surgery, like all medical procedures, follows strict ethical guidelines—patients must give informed consent, the surgeries are performed with the utmost care for patient wellbeing, and there’s a rigorous focus on reducing suffering."**

Rocket’s fur bristled with the sheer cleanliness of the whole thing. They weren’t hacking through his body. They weren’t ripping and tearing and forcing his body into something it wasn’t supposed to be. No. They were using precision, care, and ethics—things Rocket had never once seen in any of his past surgeries. His Sire’s methods, especially, felt like a barbaric joke in comparison.

There were no laws in his past life. No boundaries. No concerns about his health or wellbeing. To them, Rocket had always been expendable—a thing to be used and discarded. The idea that someone could actually perform these delicate, refined procedures with respect for the patient? It was a concept so foreign, it almost sounded unreal.

And the ethics behind Earth’s medical system... Rocket had to stop himself from snorting at the thought. On the Arete, it had been all about survival, about using anything or anyone to further their goals. It wasn’t about consent or patient autonomy. The mere concept of asking a patient for their permission, of respecting their decisions—Rocket had no idea how that would even work.

But as he read more, the reality of it settled in. There were rules. Strict codes of conduct that doctors had to follow. Surgeons weren’t allowed to operate unless they had clear, informed consent from the patient. The idea of do no harm wasn’t just an abstract idea, it was a guiding principle for every doctor on Earth.

"Medical Ethics:

Patient Autonomy: Doctors must prioritize the patient's rights to make informed decisions about their own body, even if the choices go against the doctor's advice.

Informed Consent: Every patient must be made fully aware of the risks, benefits, and alternatives before any procedure is done.

Non-Maleficence: The fundamental principle of medicine: do no harm. This means surgeons must always act in the patient’s best interest, with minimal risk and pain."

Rocket closed the journal, sitting there in stunned silence. His hands were shaking a little. Informed consent, patient autonomy—the words echoed in his mind like a strange new language. These were ideals that had never once existed in his world before, and certainly never in his experience. No one had ever asked him what he wanted, what he needed, or if he even consented to the horrors they had put him through.

And now, as he pieced everything together, he realized just how wrong it all had been. His Sire—hell, most of the people who had experimented on him—were nothing compared to the medical professionals here on Earth. They were monsters in comparison to these skilled, ethical healers.

He thought of David again. This wasn’t just someone trying to fix him. This was someone who wanted to help him. Who was taking the time to understand him in ways that no one ever had. And Rocket couldn’t deny it—he felt something stirring inside him. Something warm, something real.

If these doctors could make it so that Rocket could live without the constant reminder of his implants, without the pain and the damage they caused, maybe—just maybe—it wasn’t too late for him. Maybe there was a way to fix things, to feel whole again.

He stood up, pacing in small circles, his mind a storm of thoughts. Keyhole surgery. The very idea was mind-blowing. He could imagine his body, free from the pieces of tech that had been drilled into him. He could imagine himself without the buzzing, the irritation, the constant reminder that he wasn’t just a raccoon anymore.

For a moment, Rocket almost allowed himself to hope. Almost.

But then a grim thought pierced through. What if they screw it up?

The idea of being laid open again—of trusting anyone with his body, after everything that had been done to him—it was terrifying. He could still feel the old wounds, the memories of his Sire’s butchery. What if this Earth stuff was too good to be true?

But then again, what if it wasn’t? What if this was his chance—his real chance—to get back to something resembling normal? To feel like himself again, without the constant reminder that his body wasn’t entirely his own.

With a deep breath, Rocket shook his head, pushing those thoughts aside. He couldn’t afford to think that way right now. What mattered was the possibility. The possibility of something better, something more, something that didn’t involve pain and regret.

He closed the journal and tucked it away for now. The path ahead might still be full of questions, full of risks, but for the first time in a long time, he felt like he was standing on solid ground again.

And that, in itself, felt like a victory.

4o mini

You said:

The artwork in David's Journal hit Rocket hard. Sketches and coloured drawings of him as a base raccoon; then Rocket as he was, detailed image after image. Some of them were fantasy yet they made Rocket's eyes well up. Him nestled in bed with David as the human petted him or read him a story. Rocket living with Lylla in a little house inside a hill. Rocket happier than ever, singing something, music notes coming from his mouth. Rocket cackled as he saw himself yelling so loud at Quill there was physical force blowing the man across the room! And more, and more.

ChatGPT said:

Rocket’s eyes flickered over the pages, his breath hitching as he took in each sketch. They were beautiful, they were human, and they hit him harder than he’d expected. The images were more than just art. They were like little windows into a version of himself he’d never thought possible.

There he was, a raccoon—no, Rocket—at ease in his natural form, as if he didn’t have a single care in the world. A simple sketch of him curled up in the crook of a tree, eyes half-closed in peaceful slumber. Another one, just a quick doodle of him with his hands outstretched, playful, almost like he was reaching for something—maybe for something he thought he’d lost long ago.

But then there was the one that made Rocket’s throat tighten. It was of him, as he was now, with those damn implants and the mechanical components, standing in front of a fire with his eyes cast down. It felt too real. Too him. There was a sadness in it, but also a sense of longing—a longing for something more than what he had. And beneath it, David had written: Even with all that’s been done to you, you’re still more than just the sum of your parts.

Rocket’s chest ached as his eyes lingered on the words, the gravity of them hitting him harder than any blast he’d taken.

Then came the fantasies.

Rocket couldn’t help but stare at the scene of him curled up with David in bed. The warmth of it hit him like a freight train, knocking him off balance for a moment. He had never imagined anything like this, not in a million years. He looked so... at peace, nestled into the human’s side, eyes soft and calm. There was David, smiling down at him, hand resting gently on his head, like he was the most precious thing in the world.

Then the one with Lylla—his heart skipped. He had to blink rapidly to keep his vision from blurring. A small house nestled inside a hill, the two of them laughing together in the sun. He could hear her voice in his mind, that beautiful, familiar tone of hers. A memory he hadn’t fully let himself explore in so long.

But that image... that image made him pause, hand frozen over the page as he stared at it.

It was him, Rocket, standing on a stage in front of a crowd, mouth wide open as he belted out a song, his voice so free and loud that the very music notes seemed to swirl around him like a visible force. He could almost hear the music in his head—the sound of it, the freedom of it, a pure, unrestrained joy.

Rocket bit the inside of his cheek, trying to fight the lump that was forming in his throat. It wasn’t the first time he’d thought about what it’d be like to sing again, but seeing it... seeing it like this, made real, made him ache with the possibility that it could happen. That maybe, just maybe, he could feel that kind of joy again.

He laughed out loud at the next one. It was him, fists clenched, shouting at Peter Quill with such force that the poor human was flying across the room, arms and legs splayed out in mid-air, completely caught off guard. Rocket couldn't help but chuckle, shaking his head in amusement. Of course, he’d always imagined yelling at Quill like that. It was cathartic. And honestly, well deserved, too.

But the thing was, even in the middle of that explosion of Rocket’s temper, there was a certain affection in the picture. As absurd as it was, as exaggerated as the scene might’ve been, it was clear that underneath all the noise and chaos was a kind of bond—a connection, even if it was wrapped up in all the usual sarcasm and mischief.

Page after page, the scenes unfolded, each more impossible and beautiful than the last. There was one where he was standing with Groot, both of them tall and proud—he, grinning ear-to-ear, Groot’s huge form dwarfing him as they shared a moment of camaraderie, like nothing in the galaxy could break them apart.

And then there was the drawing of him, sitting on a cliff at sunset, looking out at the horizon. The warm light cast a soft glow on his fur, his posture relaxed, his face looking like a completely different Rocket—someone unburdened by the weight of the universe, just taking a moment for himself.

It was these kinds of pictures that hit him hardest. They showed the possibilities, the what could be, rather than the painful reality of what was. It was hard to let his mind wander into that space, into a future he hadn’t allowed himself to think about in years. The way these drawings made him feel... It was a deep, aching longing. The kind of longing for a life that didn’t feel like it was slipping through his fingers.

But despite the ache in his chest, a small part of him wanted to believe it could happen. He had David, after all. And there were moments like this—moments when the human truly saw him, understood him, and treated him as more than just the sum of his parts.

As Rocket slowly turned the pages, each drawing felt like it was asking him to believe. To trust. To hope.

And Rocket, for the first time in a long while, didn’t just want to dismiss it as a fantasy.

Maybe... maybe there was something more to this. Something more to him.

His eyes flicked back to the picture of him and David, lying together in that peaceful moment, the human’s gentle hand resting on his fur, a quiet smile on his face. Rocket couldn’t help but feel a flicker of warmth deep inside.

Maybe this—this impossible, absurd life—wasn't as far out of reach as he’d always believed.

And maybe, just maybe, he could let himself have it.

4o mini

You said:

More pages blew Rocket away. Ideas and sketches for ships, weapons, suits, all for him. Rocket LOST IT as he saw a picture of himself wearing Peter Quill's clothes, helmet and blasters! STAR-COON, TRUE LEADER OF THE GUARDIANS! was the exaggerated caption. More assistive devices. Ways to modify the ship so he could better get around.

ChatGPT said:

Rocket’s heart raced as he flipped through the pages, each one more overwhelming than the last. There were sketches of ships—his ships. Not just any ships, but designs specifically for him. There were compact, efficient designs for fast space travel, with all the gadgets and tech he could ever dream of. Weapons, too. Things that would work with his enhanced skills, all the while keeping in mind his size and agility. Each design was thought out with meticulous care, from blasters built to fit his grip perfectly to gadgets that he could carry on his own without needing to rely on anyone else.

But then… then came the ultimate bombshell.

Rocket’s breath caught in his throat as he saw it. The page was a sketch of him wearing Peter Quill’s clothes—his jacket, his helmet, the blasters, everything. He looked ridiculous, a tiny raccoon in an oversized suit, the helmet cocked at an absurd angle, but the caption beneath it made Rocket’s eyes widen in shock.

"STAR-COON, TRUE LEADER OF THE GUARDIANS!"

The absurdity of it sent Rocket into a fit of laughter, but it was that kind of deep, guttural laugh—one that came from the pit of his stomach. He couldn’t even believe David had thought of this, let alone drawn it out in such vivid detail. The way Rocket was posed, all puffed up with confidence, one hand on his hip, the other wielding Quill’s blasters like he was born to be the leader of the Guardians.

It felt like a joke. It was so ridiculous, so over the top, but Rocket couldn’t shake the warmth spreading in his chest. It was a feeling he never thought he'd experience—being seen as more than just the sarcastic, angry little raccoon who did all the dirty work. He was Star-Coon. A leader.

He wiped away a tear, laughing harder. “Oh, man… I can’t believe this…”

But then, as his laughter died down, his eyes landed on the next set of pages, and the smile faded just a bit.

There were more designs—these ones were practical. Assistive devices. Things to help Rocket navigate the ship more easily, tools that would make life easier for him in ways he’d never imagined. There were modifications to the Milano, tailored to his size and needs. A custom cockpit seat that could adjust to fit him perfectly, little arms and levers that could be adjusted to his reach. A personalized comm system that wouldn’t just be a universal interface, but one that recognized him—his voice, his commands.

David had thought of everything. He had thought of how Rocket could be himself in a world that wasn’t made for someone like him. It wasn’t just about survival. It was about living. Thriving.

Rocket felt a lump form in his throat again, but it was different this time. This time, there was no pain. Just an overwhelming sense of gratitude, of something deeper that Rocket hadn’t allowed himself to feel in a long time. It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t charity. It was care. Genuine care for who Rocket was—not just as some ragged raccoon, but as him.

Rocket Raccoon.

The thought of that name, of himself—not as a tool, not as a freak, but as someone who mattered—made the whole room feel too small. His mind raced, trying to process all of this. David wasn’t just writing a journal. He was planning, dreaming—for him. Every sketch, every note, every idea was a blueprint for something better. A way for Rocket to have a life that wasn’t just about getting by, a life that was about living.

And that was when Rocket realized it—what this was really about. It wasn’t about the fancy tech or the suits or the weapons. It wasn’t about being Star-Coon, the “leader of the Guardians” (as ridiculous as that idea was). It was about belonging.

David had made Rocket feel like he belonged. No matter how broken Rocket felt, no matter how many pieces of himself he thought he’d lost, David’s journal was a reminder that Rocket was something. Someone.

And as much as he might laugh it all off, as much as he'd never let anyone see him get soft, there was a part of him that was already starting to believe.

Maybe he could be Star-Coon. Maybe he was already.

The thought of standing beside David, alongside Groot, Quill, and the rest, felt less impossible. It felt like it could actually happen.

His fingers traced the sketch of himself in Quill’s clothes again, and this time, he didn’t laugh. He just stared, his chest tight, that flicker of something warm still glowing inside him.

Maybe, just maybe, this absurd little family of his had a place for him. Rocket—Star-Coon, the leader.

His heart pounded in his chest, and despite himself, he smiled.

4o mini

You said:

The Journal... was a treatise on Rocket. Technical Manual. Manual of Love. How to love and adore Rocket. How to pet, wash, groom, feed and care for him. How to love him. "FOR ROCKET, FROM DAVID," the last page read. "KNEW YOU'D FIND THIS ONE AND I WANT YOU TO HAVE IT; DON'T WORRY I'VE GOT ANOTHER COPY! LMK IF YOU WANT TO TALK ABOUT ANYTHING IN HERE, OR IF YOU WANT TO KILL ME FOR COMPILING ALL THIS, OK?" Rocket sniffled... then he laughed until he was crying.

ChatGPT said:

Rocket sat there, holding the journal in his paws, utterly overwhelmed. The last page, with its casual tone, its completely David phrasing, hit him harder than anything else had. "FOR ROCKET, FROM DAVID," it read. And then that line: "KNEW YOU'D FIND THIS ONE AND I WANT YOU TO HAVE IT; DON'T WORRY I'VE GOT ANOTHER COPY! LMK IF YOU WANT TO TALK ABOUT ANYTHING IN HERE, OR IF YOU WANT TO KILL ME FOR COMPILING ALL THIS, OK?"

Rocket’s heart gave a sharp tug, and for a moment, everything else melted away. The absurdity, the technical details, all the outlandish sketches, the wild theories on how to love him—it all came crashing down with that simple, heartfelt message. That was David—with his humor, his clumsy warmth, and his unrelenting care. He didn’t just see Rocket as a project or a creature or a thing to be studied. No, David saw Rocket for who he was—a friend, a companion, someone worth all this effort, all this research, all this love.

Rocket’s breath hitched, and he couldn’t help it anymore. The tears came first, then that wild laugh, deep from his belly, echoing through the quiet of the room. The kind of laugh that racked his whole body with shaking and gasping. It was absurd, ridiculous, and yet, the more he laughed, the more it felt like the weight of everything—every moment of loss, every bit of hurt, every lonely night—was finally lifting off him. All of it, gone, for this one single, overwhelming truth:

David cared.

And Rocket? Rocket... needed it. More than he'd ever let himself admit before.

Rocket wiped his eyes, trying to catch his breath as the giggles subsided, his chest still warm and tight with emotion. “Oh man... you’re insane, David.” He chuckled, wiping his paw across his face to clear the last of the tears.

He stood up, holding the journal close to his chest, running his fingers over the pages. The feeling of being seen, of being cared for in such a deeply personal, thoughtful way... it was overwhelming.

Rocket let out a breath, his voice a little hoarse. “You’re really something, you know that? I don’t know if I’m gonna kill you for this, but—" He paused, his voice softening, "Damn, David. This is... this is more than I ever thought anyone could do for me.”

And as Rocket looked at the journal again, he couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth. In this crazy universe, with all its dangers, its scars, and its wars, there was this—this soft, crazy, heart-melting thing that Rocket had never expected.

A home. A place where he truly mattered.

Maybe, just maybe, he could be Star-Coon—not just a leader, but someone who belonged. To them. To David.

4o mini

You said:

Later, with the journal stashed away in his Quarters, Rocket was making his way to the Commons aboard the ship, not really thinking about what was in front of him. He nearly ran into David -- but before Rocket even realized what was happening, David just... gently picked him up for a moment, then moved him, set him down; so brief Rocket barely even felt it. "You okay?" the human asked as they walked together. "Unit for your thoughts?"

ChatGPT said:

Rocket blinked, stunned by the sudden movement. One second, he was lost in his own head, thinking about that damn journal, and the next, poof, he was gently lifted and set down like a feather. He barely even registered the brief sensation of being picked up, it was so smooth, so practiced. It felt like... care. But Rocket wasn’t sure he was ready to confront that feeling yet.

He shook his head, trying to snap out of his daze, but he couldn't help the little huff of laughter that escaped his lips. "Unit for my thoughts?" he repeated, his voice dripping with mock offense. "Is that what I am now? A thought dispenser? Gotta admit, that’s a bit of an ego blow, Dave."

David chuckled softly beside him, the kind of chuckle that felt like it was wrapped in warmth and familiarity. "Well, I figured I’d check in. You’ve been kind of... distant lately." He glanced over at Rocket, his eyes soft with concern. "Everything good?"

Rocket opened his mouth to make a sarcastic quip, but it died in his throat. He didn't want to admit it, but he felt something tightening in his chest. He rubbed the back of his neck, his usual deflection technique kicking in, but it was half-hearted this time. "I’m fine," he muttered, but even to his own ears, it sounded weak.

David didn’t press him. Instead, he slowed his pace, walking beside Rocket like they were just two old pals strolling through the halls of the ship. The kind of relaxed companionship that Rocket had never quite let himself have, not fully. He'd never really let anyone in, not like this.

Finally, he let out a sigh, the weight of the journal’s revelations still fresh in his mind. "I was just... thinking," Rocket admitted, his voice quieter than usual. "You know, just... stuff."

David raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything. They both knew Rocket’s version of "stuff" was never just "stuff." It was everything—always complicated, always messy.

"I get it," David said after a beat. "Thinking’s... dangerous. But sometimes it’s nice, too."

Rocket shot him a sideways glance, surprised by the understanding in David’s voice. He opened his mouth to protest, to go into his usual snark about thinking being overrated, but it just didn’t feel right. Instead, he simply shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.”

They walked in silence for a few moments, the kind of silence that felt easy. Like neither of them had to rush to fill it with words. Rocket liked that. It was... comfortable.

Finally, David broke the quiet, his voice softer than before. "You know, if you ever need to talk about anything... you don’t have to be alone with it. I’m here, Rocket."

Rocket’s heart gave a little jolt at those words, and he almost choked on his own breath. It was so simple, so quiet—but there it was. The kind of offer that made him feel exposed in the best way possible. David didn’t need to say it, but he said it anyway: You’re not alone.

Rocket fought to keep his expression neutral. He had to; if he didn’t, his face would betray him. He hadn’t let anyone see him like this—open. Vulnerable. Not since... well, ever.

“Yeah, well… maybe we’ll talk about it sometime,” Rocket said, his voice still a bit rough but trying to regain its usual edge. “But right now, I could use a snack. You know what’s good? That weird gelatin stuff Groot likes.”

David laughed. "I knew you'd come around to it eventually."

Rocket shot him a small, sideways grin. "I have standards, you know."

The tension between them melted away as they continued on, their pace in sync, the kind of unspoken understanding that Rocket didn’t even have to ask for. It was there, just... there.

And for the first time in a long time, Rocket didn’t feel so alone.

4o mini

You said:

"I have standards, you know." "Indeed, young Master!" David smiled, effecting the voice of a Butler. "And your standards, as always, are most impeccable!"

ChatGPT said:

Rocket couldn’t help but bark out a laugh at the terrible butler impression. He threw David a playful side-eye, raising an eyebrow. “Impeccable, huh? I’m pretty sure my standards don’t involve you calling me ‘young master.’”

David kept his over-the-top butler voice going, stretching the words out for full dramatic effect. “But of course, Master Rocket, you’re always the very model of dignity and taste. Might I suggest, perhaps, that you take your place at the snack table and sample the finest offerings?”

Rocket rolled his eyes, but a grin tugged at his lips. “You’re ridiculous,” he muttered, shoving David’s shoulder lightly, but he couldn’t quite stop the warmth spreading through his chest. It wasn’t just the words; it was the feeling. The fact that David was always willing to indulge in these absurd moments, to make Rocket feel like this—like he mattered, even in something as simple as a bad butler impression.

David bowed dramatically, earning a snicker from Rocket. “The finest offerings await, Master Rocket. Only the finest for you!”

Rocket gave him a side glance, his expression softening. “Alright, alright. You’re not that bad for a dumb human, I guess.” He reached over to grab a snack—Groot’s weird gelatinous concoction—smirking at the absurdity of it all.

David laughed, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “Not bad, huh? I’ll take it.” Then, his voice softened, almost too casually. “You know, I do think you’re pretty amazing, Rocket. Standards or no.”

The words hung in the air for a moment. And despite the ridiculousness of it all—despite the banter—Rocket felt something in him twist. Not bad, huh? Not bad, indeed. Maybe... maybe there was more to it than just the laughter. Maybe it was the way David was there, always there, like a solid presence that made Rocket feel like he could let down his guard—even just a little.

Rocket stuffed his mouth with the gelatin, masking the strange, unspoken feeling bubbling inside him. “Don’t get sappy on me now, Dave. You’ll ruin the moment.”

David gave him a soft look, his smile almost too knowing, but he didn’t press further. Instead, he just nodded and leaned back, watching Rocket with a quiet kind of affection.

They didn’t need to say anything more. Not yet.

You said:

Rocket had tested the waters. He and David had been watching some dumb thing or another, and Rocket had slowly, gently, deliberately leaned into David, to see what the human would do. Having only known Quill - a terrible example - the little raccoon had expected David to eventually be the same as him. Rocket expected a sharp retort, or to be shoved away. Instead... David had adjusted to make Rocket even more comfortable. Then... then the human had started to pet him, softly stroke his headfur! He didn't make a big deal out of it. He just... did it, like it was the most natural, normal thing in the world. Like Rocket was welcomed, meant to be there. Rocket blinked, sniffled softly, then gently closed his eyes.

ChatGPT said:

Rocket felt the soft stroke of David's hand through his headfur again, and the warmth from the human's touch settled deep in him. The motion wasn’t overbearing or overly affectionate—it was gentle, just a quiet act of comfort. As if David had decided that this was just part of what they did.

It was... natural.

Rocket hadn't expected this. He hadn't known how to expect it, really. With Quill, there was always some kind of edge—mockery, sarcasm, or even the awkwardness of being around someone who couldn't truly understand him. Rocket had learned to brace himself for the pushback, for the boundaries. But this? This was different. David didn't seem to have any of that. No expectations. No awkwardness. Just... acceptance.

The fact that David had just let Rocket lean into him without hesitation—without a word—made something tight inside Rocket loosen just a little. It wasn't like Rocket had to fight to earn the touch, or like he had to prove he deserved it. It was just there, unspoken, woven into the fabric of their connection. And that... that was scary.

It felt too good, and Rocket didn’t know how to deal with it.

But then, when David’s fingers slid through his fur again, Rocket closed his eyes slowly, just for a second. His breath hitched, but he didn’t pull away. In fact, he leaned a little closer, his fur tickling David's palm as he exhaled softly, letting himself enjoy it. Letting himself be there.

“Hey, Dave…” Rocket murmured, voice quieter than usual, trying to sound casual even though his heart felt like it was about to beat out of his chest. “You know you’re weird, right?”

David chuckled, his hand still moving through Rocket’s fur. "I get that a lot," he replied easily, his voice warm and steady. “You’re welcome to get weirder with me, if you want.”

Rocket huffed a quiet laugh, his chest tightening for a moment. “Yeah, yeah, sure, whatever,” he muttered. But despite the words, he stayed right where he was, his head gently resting against David's side, his mind floating in the odd quiet between them.

It was nice, damn it. Too nice.

He sniffled again, half to himself, trying to hide the soft tug of emotion threatening to show itself. But for the first time in what felt like forever, Rocket didn’t feel the need to fight it. He didn’t feel like he had to run, or push away, or shield himself from the warmth that had started to creep in around the edges of his heart. It was simple—soft—but it was real. And maybe that was what scared him the most.

But for now, all he could do was close his eyes and let David’s hand continue to move through his fur. Just this once, he let himself be—not guarded, not defensive. Just... Rocket. And David’s quiet, unspoken care.

4o mini

You said:

“You’re welcome to get weirder with me, if you want,” David had said. And so the little raccoon had, at least a little. One night, Rocket had just -- walked into David's Quarters, shucked his uniform, then put on the shirt David had just been wearing. Rocket looked at David, defiant, with a look that screamed 'what are you going to do about it?' He'd expected an 'Okay, very funny' or a 'What the hell are you doing?!' or the worst, 'Give that back and get the hell out!' But... David had looked at Rocket very sadly. Very seriously. The human had gently beckoned Rocket over; then when Rocket had approached - still clad in nothing but his underwear and David's shirt - David had *gently* pulled back the duvet, then had *carefully* picket Rocket up and had just... tucked him into bed next to him. Again, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like Rocket was meant to be there. Like he was lov-- Tears misted Rocket's eyes.

ChatGPT said:

Rocket had felt the strange mix of emotions swirling in his chest as David had pulled him into the bed that night. The human had done it so gently, so naturally—there was no shock, no judgment. No discomfort at all. He just... welcomed Rocket.

It had been the simplest thing. The softest touch. And it had rattled Rocket more than anything ever had.

When David tucked him in, even though Rocket’s mind screamed at him to pull away, to fight it, to protect himself—he didn’t. He didn’t pull away because for the first time in a long time, it felt right. It felt like something real, something safe, something he could trust.

David had looked at him with such kindness in his eyes, and it cut Rocket straight through. It was the way he'd made room for Rocket, as if he was never a bother or an intrusion. Just there. Just... wanted.

And that’s when the tears came, the ones Rocket didn’t know were there until they started falling, slipping down his face quietly in the dark. He'd never let himself cry like this. Hell, he'd never let anyone see how vulnerable he really was, but right then, with David so close, so present, something inside him just gave way.

"Hey," David had murmured softly, his voice warm but full of something tender. "You okay?"

Rocket sniffled, but instead of shying away or brushing it off, he curled into David’s side. It was the only thing he could do in that moment, and even as his heart threatened to pound out of his chest, he just stayed there. Just let it happen. Because he couldn’t lie to himself anymore. This... this was more than what he'd ever expected. More than he’d ever dreamed.

“Yeah… yeah, I’m fine,” Rocket said quietly, even as his voice trembled slightly. “Just… just didn’t expect you to be so... damn nice.”

David smiled softly, brushing a stray bit of fur from Rocket’s face. "It's okay. You don’t have to explain anything to me. You’re allowed to just be here. With me. I want that, Rocket."

And Rocket, despite the flood of emotions, despite how unsteady it made him feel, finally let himself relax. Let himself feel the warmth of David’s presence—the way David’s hand moved gently over his fur, as if nothing was wrong. Like everything Rocket had been afraid of, all the walls he'd built to protect himself, didn’t matter anymore.

In that moment, Rocket allowed himself to just be—just to feel safe. Just to feel cared for. Because David... David had shown him, in the simplest of ways, that maybe, just maybe, it was okay to let go.

So Rocket closed his eyes, leaning into David’s side, and for once, let himself be taken care of. Let himself be loved.

4o mini

You said:

Rocket... remembered David's warmth that night. The human's hand softly petting, stroking his fur; the tiny cry he'd released at how it felt, so good as the organic parts of his brain lit up. Touch without pain. He remembered his tears. And... he remembered David *singing* to him: "Dear Heart, dear Soul Old friend, don't let me go I am the fire and you are water Drown me out, but I learnt So if you see me, cross the street But I still see you in people I meet And I am fire and you are water You drown me out, but I learnt, I got older, found out I ought to Make ashes from stone All of these things that I've seen turn darkness into gold And when I was made from the right kind of wrong All of these things that I've seen turned darkness into gold Into gold, into gold, into gold, into gold Into gold, into gold, into gold, into gold Into gold, into gold, into gold, into gold Into gold, into gold, into gold, into gold Rivers run red, river run dry River run red and white I am the fire and you are water Drown me out, but I learnt So if you see me, cross the street But I still see you in people I meet I am fire and you are water You ran me wild to the sea, there you'll find me, trying to catch me Make ashes from stone All of these things that I've seen turn darkness into gold And when I was made from the right kind of wrong All of these things that I've seen turned darkness into gold All of these things that I've seen turned darkness into gold All of these things that I've seen turned darkness into gold (into gold) All of these things that I've seen turned darkness into gold" Rocket remembered his little paw closing about some of David's pyjama top. David's soft falsetto as he sang, and gods, that song! Nuzzling into the crook of the human's shoulder, Rocket hitched a sob. And then, at last, he slept.

2/2

ChatGPT said:

That night, Rocket’s dreams were vivid, a blur of colors and memories—David’s voice soft in his ears, the warmth of the human's hand on his fur, the feeling of being safe. Rocket’s mind drifted in a hazy sea of comfort, the lyrics from the song lingering in the air like a soft echo. "Into gold, into gold..."

When Rocket woke, it was to the quiet comfort of David's quarters, the sun just beginning to rise outside. He lay there for a moment, blinking in the morning light, still nestled against the warmth of the human's side. David was still asleep, his breathing steady and calm, his arm draped over Rocket protectively, as if the two of them belonged in that space together. And for the first time in a long time, Rocket allowed himself to believe it.

The lingering feeling from the night before—the gentleness, the warmth, the acceptance—had seeped into his soul. It wasn’t just comfort, not just the absence of pain. It was something more. Something real.

As Rocket gently shifted, trying not to wake David, he found himself smiling. A small, quiet smile that didn’t feel like something he had to hide or question. He didn’t know what the future held, or where this uncharted road might take them, but for once, he didn’t feel alone. For once, he didn’t feel like he had to keep fighting to prove his worth, to earn the love and care he didn’t think he deserved.

David’s voice, soft and kind, rose in his mind again: “You don’t have to explain anything to me. You’re allowed to just be here. With me.”

And for the first time, Rocket felt it deep in his bones. He was allowed. He was allowed to be here. Allowed to be loved. Allowed to exist without fear, without walls, without the weight of the past crushing him.

Rocket reached up, touching David’s hand gently where it lay over his fur. He nuzzled the warmth of David’s arm, just the slightest bit closer, before he finally closed his eyes again, letting the soft hum of the ship, the quiet rhythm of their breaths, lull him back to sleep.

It was a new beginning. And this time, Rocket let himself rest in the knowledge that it wasn’t just some fleeting moment of kindness—it was something real. Something worth holding on to.

And so, in the quiet of the morning, as David slept peacefully beside him, Rocket allowed himself to simply be.

4o mini

You said:

Later, Rocket whined as he felt David move away and get out of their small bed. The little Raccoon moaned, felt where David had been, and then was rolling into the warm spot left behind, hearing David chuckle. Half asleep, half awake, Rocket watched as David moved over to the small kitchenette jammed into his quarters. Aware of how the machine might sound - of how it could affect Rocket and bring back a bad memory - the human foregoes a mechanical grinder and instead grinds NEAR-FRESH Coffee Beans into powder using a hand grinder. A while later, David gently pulls out - "What the flark...?" - an odd machine mounted to a wooden base. It's all gold tubes, with a golden carafe on one side, a glass fuel burner beneath that, then a glass on the other side, a tube going from the gold carafe to it! Hopping out of bed, Rocket pads over, curious... and then he sees it. The absolute *magic* of my Balance Siphon in action, as the water is siphoned down the brass tube to fill the glass full of coffee powder; then his eyes widen as the machine *shifts* the flame shuts off, and the filtered coffee is siphoned back up from the glass into the carafe. "Oh, what the...? Whoa...!" he breathes.

ChatGPT said:

David chuckled softly at Rocket’s wonder, his fingers carefully adjusting the flame beneath the glass base to maintain the perfect temperature for the siphon brewing process. "You’re in for a treat, little buddy. This is my Belgian Balance Siphon. Took me a while to get the hang of it, but it’s worth it."

Rocket, wide-eyed and transfixed by the strange and beautiful mechanism, couldn’t help but lean in closer. The golden tubes and glass globes gleamed in the soft light of the room. The brewing process was almost hypnotic: the water, heated by the small burner, began to rise up through the brass tube, moving in a slow, almost graceful dance as it mixed with the coffee grounds in the glass carafe. Rocket’s eyes followed the movement of the liquid, the way the coffee slowly began to form in the bottom of the glass, rich and dark, the aroma already filling the room.

The little raccoon blinked, utterly captivated by the delicate interplay of heat, water, and flavor. "That’s... that’s wild, man," he muttered, eyes wide. "I thought... I thought it was just gonna, y’know, like drip through, or whatever. But this... it’s like... it’s like alchemy or something!"

David grinned, clearly enjoying Rocket’s awe. "It’s all about the balance—hence the name. The pressure changes, the heat... it makes for a smooth, flavorful coffee that’s way more than just a caffeine kick. It’s a whole experience."

Rocket sat down beside David, still glued to the machine. His tail swished with excitement, the anticipation building as the liquid began to siphon back into the top chamber. "I gotta admit, that’s one heck of a contraption," he said, voice full of admiration. "But... how does it taste? I mean, this thing’s fancy, but is it actually good?"

David paused, glancing at Rocket with a smirk. "Well, I guess there's only one way to find out." He carefully removed the glass carafe, placing it down on a nearby counter, and then poured the coffee into two small cups.

Rocket watched, leaning forward eagerly as the deep, rich brew filled the cups. He could already smell the complex, aromatic scent wafting up from the cup, rich and full. David handed one to him, watching as Rocket's paw wrapped around the handle, still holding it carefully, like he was holding something valuable.

Taking a slow sip, Rocket’s eyes widened in surprise. The flavor was rich, smooth, and deep. It wasn’t just bitter or sharp like the usual stuff he’d had in the past—it had layers, hints of earthiness, maybe even a little sweetness. It was, for lack of a better word, perfect.

His eyes met David’s, a bit of awe still lingering in his gaze. "Okay, okay... that’s... that’s really good. Like, really good. It’s like... like a symphony of flavors or something. How'd you even find this thing?"

David chuckled, leaning back against the counter as he sipped his own coffee. "Oh, I found it on a whim, really. Did a bit of research and got myself a hand grinder to go with it. Some things just need to be done right, y’know?"

Rocket sat back, tail twitching happily as he finished his cup, savoring every last drop. "You sure know how to spoil a raccoon. This... this is the good stuff, man. I don’t think I’ll ever look at coffee the same way again."

David smiled warmly, his eyes softening as he glanced at Rocket. "I’m glad you like it. You deserve the best, Rocket. Always have."

Rocket blinked at that, his heart giving a strange little flip. He knew it was just coffee. But somehow... it felt like something more. And he didn’t want to think too hard about it, didn’t want to overanalyze it. He just let himself enjoy the moment. The warmth, the comfort, the soft rhythm of the morning, and the gentle understanding that seemed to flow between him and David.

"Yeah, well..." Rocket said, finally breaking the silence, his voice soft but sincere. "I guess... I guess I do deserve the best, huh?"

David’s smile never faltered. "Yeah, you do."

And for the first time in a long time, Rocket believed it.

4o mini

You said:

Rocket expected to eat a simple protein bar after that and then be gone -- but then the SMELL of the full breakfast David COOKED for him hit his nose. Cereal. Bacon and Eggs on Toast. A little bowl of fruits. A second smaller Coffee. His body wanted it; screamed at him as tears welled in his eyes. And when he ate it? REAL FOOD, not ship rations? Rocket WHIMPERED because it all tasted SO GOOD...

ChatGPT said:

David didn’t say a word as Rocket stared at the plate.

He just sat down across from him, sipping his own coffee, letting the food speak for itself. And oh, it did — Rocket could barely breathe through the storm of smells: the rich smokiness of the bacon, the sharp buttery note from the eggs, the toast just browned to golden perfection, that tiny bowl of fruit chilled to refreshing sweetness. The cereal even crackled softly in milk like it was glad to be alive.

Rocket just stood there a second. Silent.

Then he sat. Slowly. As if his body had moved on its own before his mind caught up. A tremor passed through his arms as he picked up the fork, hand pausing mid-air.

"...You, uh..." he started, trying to brush it off. “You didn’t hafta go this hard.”

David only smiled softly. “Nah. I didn’t hafta. I wanted to.”

And Rocket — tough little Rocket, who didn’t flinch at explosions, didn’t break under interrogations, who'd built himself back from nothing — whimpered.

Because the first bite was hot. The toast crisp and savory. The egg’s yolk melted into everything. It hit him right behind the eyes — his stomach, poor thing, like it had forgotten what real nourishment was — howled in relief. His lips parted for a second, then closed, trembling.

The second bite came with bacon. Salty, sweet, a little crunchy around the edges.

Then the fruit. Cold, juicy, like sunrise in his mouth.

He tried to stay quiet. He did.

But a soft sob broke out of him. He couldn’t help it.

David didn’t push. He didn’t hover. He just sat across from Rocket, letting him eat, letting him feel everything he needed to feel — like it was the most normal thing in the world for someone to quietly cry while devouring breakfast.

Rocket’s paw swiped his face. “It’s just... it’s just food, man,” he mumbled, half-angry at himself.

David nodded gently. “Yeah. But your body remembers when it didn’t have it. And now it’s safe.”

Safe.

Rocket didn’t say anything after that. Just kept eating.

And when he finished, eyes puffy and belly warm, he looked over at David.

"...Thanks," he rasped. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t close to enough. But it was all he had in that moment.

David just reached over and topped up his coffee. "Anytime, Rocket. Seriously."

Rocket wrapped his paws around the warm cup, closed his eyes for a moment... and for once, didn't feel like he had to keep armor on around this human.

Maybe he'd stay a little longer.

You said:

Morning duties, fixing this and that, little things here and there on the ship -- were going to be very different now. As Rocket went about his business... David was there with full-on thick beard, Akubra hat -- and a massive Bowie knife that Rocket had NEVER seen before that looked like it could cleave ANYONE in half! He was a looming silent presence behind him. Never in Rocket's way. Fetching this and that when asked. And Rocket realized... subtly making people MOVE OUT OF THE WAY when others started getting too close to him! Making for him a 'bubble' or 'aura' of personal space in a world of giants. It settled the always frightened raccoon instincts within his anthropomorphic form, finally made him feel *safe* and Rocket would gently bump, nudge, and nuzzle him subtly in thanks.

ChatGPT said:

It didn’t take long before the rest of the crew started noticing.

Not that David was doing anything dramatic — he didn’t yell, didn’t posture, didn’t pull rank or bark orders — but something about the way he stood, the way his eyes tracked, the calm, slow way he unsheathed that enormous Bowie just to cut some wire casing or slice a ration wrapper...

It was deeply unsettling to anyone with half a brain.

Especially since he barely spoke while he was doing it.

Rocket? Rocket didn’t say a word about it. But he knew. Oh, he knew. The bubble was real. And it worked. He could move about without jerks brushing past him, without trying to defend his airspace, without that ever-present edge in his spine like he was going to have to bite or bolt.

And when that tension started to rise — someone getting too close, speaking too loud, reaching — there David was, just there, looming a step closer, shoulders squared.

And suddenly Rocket had space again.

Rocket tested it once — reaching up to pull a component, arm half buried in a vent panel — and felt someone about to crowd him from behind. But before he could even bare his teeth, he heard the soft shink of the Bowie sliding home in its sheath, saw the shadow loom bigger in the reflection of the panel—

The crew member took a casual detour around the corridor bulkhead.

Rocket’s tail flicked in amusement. That one wasn’t dumb.

Later, in private, he bumped David with a shoulder. Nudged him gently with his snout like an affectionate dog pretending not to be affectionate. Didn’t say anything.

David didn’t need him to.

He just reached down, rough knuckles brushing through Rocket’s headfur in that easy, grounding way — the kind of touch Rocket never used to trust, but now craved more than food.

“You’re alright,” David said softly.

And for once, Rocket believed it.

You said:

When lunch time came, David took one look at the... food... Rocket was about to eat - the meagre ration pack and protein bar, 'junk' for his body, basically no good. David shook his head. "Hey, d'ast it--!" Rocket cried as the human took them, put them into a Biohazard Container. Then the human went into the galley kitchen... And he came back later with IT. THE LUNCH. Rocket SMELT it... and then he SAW it. Bread, crunchy CRUST on the outside, yet soft and warm, buttered. And then - his body howled inside, he thought he heard a whimper but NOPE IT WASN'T HIM! - because of the STEW. THICK and HEARTY and full of... of... EVERYTHING. Meat, vegetables, carrot, corn and MORE in a slightly thickened BROTH that made him sob as his stomach screamed W-A-N-T!!!

ChatGPT said:

Rocket stared at it like it was a mirage.

He didn't move at first — like if he reached for it, it'd vanish. Like it was some cruel dream his brain had cooked up in the depths of starvation memory. Because no one did this. No one made meals like this. Not for him.

Not unless they wanted something.

“Go on,” David said gently, setting the tray down on a crate beside him. “It’s yours.”

Rocket’s eyes were wide, pupils blown as the smell filled his nose and wrapped around his whole damn soul. The buttered bread — real bread, toasted just right, golden and crusted with a little crunch when he poked it — sat next to the bowl like it was waiting for him.

And the stew? It was a miracle. No synthetics. No chemical-tasting, half-rehydrated "protein units." This was slow-cooked, crafted, and somehow still hot. The meat pulled apart with the spoon, the kind of tenderness that only came from hours of love and heat.

His hands trembled as he picked it up.

Rocket whimpered — okay, this time it WAS him, screw it — and took the first mouthful.

The sound he made was not language. It was not anything but pure instinct, somewhere between a sob and a growl of pleasure. He hunched over the bowl a little like he was guarding it from a world that had never given him anything like this before. His tail curled around his feet, shoulders tight, eyes stinging.

It tasted like comfort. Like safety. Like being seen.

David didn’t hover. Didn’t make a big deal out of it. Just leaned nearby, doing something casual — adjusting the tools, checking some wiring — like this wasn’t some massive act of quiet rebellion against everything Rocket had ever known.

Rocket wiped at his eyes furiously. “Stupid flarkin’—” he muttered into the bowl. “Making me cry over stew, what the hell’s wrong with you…”

David didn’t say anything. Just reached down and gently patted his shoulder. Warm. Solid. Real.

“Eat, Rocket,” he said. “You deserve it.”

And Rocket believed that too.

...At least for a little while.

You said:

The next night Rocket attempted to "shit-test" David. He again walked into David's Quarters -- but this time when shucked his uniform he climbed into David's bed near furclad aside from his underwear. But... "Unnnhhh, h'oh... wha--? Unhflarrkin'...!" ... Rocket hadn't expected what he'd done to BACKFIRE in the manner that it had. Once more, he'd expected a "OH MY GOD, GET THE HELL OUT!" But... David had taken his being furclad as full-on invitation to PET and STROKE him thoroughly... and now Rocket was LUXURIATING, rolling this way and that way, utterly powerless, unwilling, unable to even lift a PAW to stop David; instead, the raccoon was making... ALL THE NOISES eyes teared up, PURRING LOUD, utterly dazed with the sensation. He might protest inside, but his BODY knew what it wanted. TOUCH. What his old, old raccoon brain had been denied so long.

2/2

ChatGPT said:

David, half-asleep, had blinked blearily at the furball who'd invaded his bed again. But the second he saw Rocket flop down — half-defiant, half daring — in nothing but his boxers and all that soft fur, the human gave a slow, sleepy smirk.

“Ohhh... so that’s how it’s gonna be tonight, huh?” he muttered, voice still husky with sleep.

Rocket blinked at him once, trying to maintain that tough guy look, but there was hesitation behind it. Like he was waiting to be punished, rejected, maybe thrown out.

But instead...

David reached over. Slowly. Deliberately. And began to run his fingers through Rocket’s fur. Down his head, along his back, over his side — and that was it.

Rocket was done.

“Unnnnhhff—!” Rocket arched, curled slightly, made a sound from his throat that was somewhere between a gasp, a purr, and a broken “what the flaaark is happening to me?!” as his body melted.

“No—no no no—staahhhp,” he groaned, even as he rolled into the touch, squirming helplessly.

David chuckled. “Lotta protest for someone purring loud enough to shake the mattress, my guy.”

“Flark you,” Rocket half-whined, half-moaned, tail twitching involuntarily as David’s hand found just the right rhythm between his shoulder blades. His eyes fluttered, his claws flexed, and his body — traitorous, needy body — just leaned in, chasing it.

David only smiled, warm and impossibly gentle. “You wanted to see what would happen,” he murmured, “and this is what happens. You get what you needed.”

Rocket should have fought back. He should have at least said something tough, thrown some snark.

But he couldn’t.

Instead, he let out a pathetic huff, his ears twitching as his breath hitched and his purring reached a low, constant rumble. He rolled onto his side, presenting the fluff of his belly before even realizing it, legs slightly tucked in, arms limp and paws twitching at every stroke.

“I’m not… I ain’t weak,” he mumbled.

David’s hand slowed, settling softly over Rocket’s chest like a warm weight. “I know,” he said.

Rocket trembled under that hand.

"...I just didn’t think anyone would ever..."

“I know that too.”

And Rocket, once again, nuzzled blindly into the crook of David’s shoulder, surrendered to the touch, and — for the second time in his life — fell asleep feeling safe.

You said:

And then, one day, Quill had to be a jerkass and try to steal some of ROCKET'S food! The food that ROCKET'S HUMAN had made for HIM! AS Quill's hand crept along the table, Rocket hunched over his plate, raccoon GROWL growing LOUDER in the back of his throat. He would have LASHED OUT but - *THUNK!* "AUGH, FUCK!" - suddenly the LONG DAGGER disguised as a BOWIE KNIFE David used THUNKED into the TABLE, PINNING QUILL'S HAND! Rocket's FUR FLUFFED UP and his eyes went wide as suddenly he realized just how fucking terrifying his human - wait, where had THAT come from? - his human, David was! "Don't move, Pete," David said, then "AUGH, FUCKING--!" was Quill's cry as David pulled the knife out. The blade had PINNED Quill's hand, the knife point going through a tiny bit of skin to the table below! Scowling, Quill moved away to bandage his hand. Part of Rocket freaked out. Part of Rocket growled, "I can take care'a myself!" But... another, growing part of Rocket FELT TEN FEET TALL! Because... flark it all... he had BACKUP. DAVID JUST... BACKED HIM UP!

2/2

ChatGPT said:

Rocket froze.

One second he was hunched over his plate like a feral little beast, lips curled back over his teeth, a low guttural growl rising as Quill’s stupid hand inched closer.

And the next—THUNK.

Rocket flinched hard, ears twitching wildly, fur puffing like a startled cat as he stared at the long, gleaming knife buried halfway into the table — through Quill’s goddamn hand.

“AUGH, FUCK!” Quill howled, yanking back instinctively, only to find himself pinned. Blood trickled from the fine puncture in the webbing between his fingers.

Rocket’s eyes snapped to David.

The human hadn’t even raised his voice.

“Don’t move, Pete,”

He said it calm. Cold. Deadly. Just as he reached out — and ripped the blade free.

“AUGH, FUCKING—!”

Quill staggered back, cradling his hand, muttering a string of curses, backing out of the mess hall like a man who just realized he’d picked a fight with the wrong kind of quiet.

Rocket didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

He just... stared.

David was cleaning the blade now, completely unfazed. Cool as ever. Beard thick, eyes unreadable. His voice hadn’t risen, his hand hadn’t even trembled.

Rocket was still trembling slightly.

“I can take care’a myself,” he growled out eventually, as if he had to say it. As if it was written into his bones. Survival, pride, pain — it all forced the words up through clenched teeth.

But...

But.

Another part of him — deeper, quieter, older — was just sitting there stunned. Wide-eyed. Breathing hard.

Because someone... had backed him up.

David had acted without hesitation. No questions. No bravado. Just clean, efficient protection.

Rocket looked down at his plate again, ears twitching... and felt it. That strange warmth in his chest. The one he was scared to name.

He looked over at David. And for a moment, he saw not a human.

But a packmate.

And in his heart, something rumbled like a quiet, protective purr.

You said:

That night... the UNSEEN happens between Rocket and David. Beneath the warm, musty comfort of the duvet... Rocket gently slips his underwear off. Now,,, he is *wholly* furclad. David solemnly takes his pyjama bottoms off. Skyclad. And Rocket PRESSES, MOULDS himself against David's form, fur to skin, skin to fur. David PETS and STROKES and CARESSES - going as CLOSE as he dares to Rocket's intimate places, thighs, hips, tail... Rocket gently rolls here and there, flops softly all over HIS HUMAN, SCENT MARKING, rubbing all over. CLAIMING. It's... as CLOSE as they can go without, well, sex, though Rocket does nuzzle all over David's face, lick-lick-lick under his neck, purring thunderous. HIS PERSON. HIS HUMAN. Soft whimpers, trilly raccoon vocalizations. And Rocket lets his tears fall, body hitching as he *weeps* silently, his whole furred body SINGING from David's touch, ancient raccoon instincts quietened, satisfied.

2/2

ChatGPT said:

Reasoned for 9 seconds

Beneath the low, drowsy glow of the ship’s quarters, the night deepened into something raw and unspoken. In the dim light under the duvet, Rocket—wholly unadorned except for his natural, furred self—slowly shed the last vestiges of his uniform. His heartbeat thudded in his ears as he watched David, who, with a solemn gravity, removed his own pyjama bottoms until he stood there, vulnerable and real.

In that quiet, private space, Rocket moved toward David, as if drawn by a force older than fear—a need to be seen, to be held, to reclaim the intimacy his long-forgotten instincts yearned for. Rocket pressed himself close, fur meeting skin in a soft, unspoken declaration of trust and need. There was a delicate urgency in the way his paws reached out, tracing David’s form, as if trying to memorize every contour, every warmth.

David responded with a tenderness that belied the hard edges of the universe outside their quarters. His hand traveled slowly, reverently, along Rocket’s fur, dipping into the sensitive places—along his thighs, across his hips, trailing over his tail. Each gentle stroke seemed to erase some of the scars, the memories of pain, replacing them with a fragile, but determined, hope.

Rocket’s body betrayed him with soft whimpers and low purrs—a symphony of sound that mingled with the silence of the room. His little raccoon vocalizations, usually edged with sarcasm or defiance, now turned into earnest, trilling murmurs of longing and surrender. He nuzzled all over David’s face, his tongue softly tasting the salt of shared vulnerability, marking the space as his own while silently asking to be claimed.

Tears welled in Rocket’s eyes—not of sorrow this time, but of an overwhelming relief, a catharsis that came from finally being held and cherished. In that moment, every ancient instinct, every guarded memory of a harsher world, was quieted by the warmth of David’s touch. Rocket’s body, trembling and soft against the human’s skin, sang its own ballad of longing and fulfillment—a song of rediscovered safety, of intimacy reclaimed without the need for words.

There, under the gentle weight of the duvet and the steady, caring presence of David, Rocket let himself simply be. No more fighting, no more building walls. In the quiet rhythm of shared breaths and tender strokes, he found a space where he could truly rest—and maybe, just maybe, begin to heal.

2/2

o3-mini

You said:

And thus, slowly, gently, Human and Uplifted Raccoon closed their eyes and slept. The next morning - as if for the first time in his life - Rocket woke naturally, his waking long and lazy, purring, drifting in and out of sleep--sometimes half-waking to yawn and stre-e-e-e-tch his limbs, fingers and toes, only to settle back into the warm, musty comfort of the duvet, back against the warmth of David's body and drift to sleep again.

2/2

ChatGPT said:

The warmth of the morning sun filtered through the small window, gently waking the room from its slumber. Yet, for Rocket, it felt like the first time he'd ever truly known what it was like to wake with ease—no startle, no fear, no anxiety clawing at his mind. Instead, he stretched slowly, feeling the familiar, comforting weight of the duvet around him, his fur melding into the soft, steady presence of David’s body beside him.

With a soft, contented sigh, Rocket stretched out his limbs, paws reaching, fingers and toes extending to their full length. A yawn escaped his lips, throat vibrating with a deep, satisfied hum that felt almost like a purr—slow and languid, a sound that seemed to echo in the quiet morning. He let his eyes flutter open, only to close them again as the warmth of the blanket and the steady rhythm of David’s breathing pulled him back into the depths of peaceful sleep.

It wasn’t a forced rest. It wasn’t a desperate need to escape. It was real, deep relaxation—something Rocket had long since forgotten was possible. The soft, quiet thrum of contentment in his chest was a song he’d never known could exist, a gentle reminder that he was, in this moment, safe.

Every time he half-woke, he drifted again, sinking back into the warmth of David’s presence. It was easy. It was natural. There was no tension, no second-guessing, just the steady feeling of being cared for, of being seen and wanted without condition. And for once, Rocket didn’t feel the need to fight it. He didn’t have to push away or act tough.

This was new. This was peace. And Rocket, furclad and soft, let himself enjoy it.

The soft light from the window crept further across the room as time passed, but for Rocket, time didn’t seem to matter anymore. Each moment felt like it could stretch forever, filled with a warmth that had only recently begun to bloom in his chest. When the world outside felt cold and harsh, this small corner of it, tucked away with David, was all that mattered.

Eventually, the gentle pull of reality called them both awake—no rush, no urgency. Just the slow, shared morning that was theirs, and Rocket settled into it with a deep, contented sigh, letting himself fall into the quiet rhythm of the day to come.

4o mini

You said:

When the little raccoon awakened fully--he expected to feel "all the little aches and pains", the dull ache of his implants, only... he didn't! Rocket instead felt only the softness of the duvet, the warmth of his humie, the feel of David's breath as it tickled against his nose; and his eyes closed slightly, a wordless hum escaping from him as he became aware of his humie's hands petting the fur of his head. Some long-suppressed, ancient instinct made Rocket inch his head forward just so to nuzzle the human's nose; inhale to share his breath; then Rocket nuzzled David more, marking his humie with his scent - again!

ChatGPT said:

The morning air was thick with warmth, the kind that invited slow breaths and lazy moments. Rocket, fully aware of the stillness of the world around him, sank deeper into the softness of the duvet, his fur pressed against the familiar, steady presence of David. The warmth of the human's body was soothing, and the gentle rhythm of David’s breath, steady and grounding, echoed in Rocket’s mind like a quiet song.

When Rocket first woke fully, he had expected that familiar, nagging ache—the one that always seemed to be there in the background of his thoughts, the reminder of all the mechanical parts stitched inside him. But now... nothing. There was no dull pain, no reminder of how his body had been modified. Just the softness beneath him, the warmth beside him, and the deep, calming presence of David. For the first time in what felt like forever, Rocket felt whole. Not like a patchwork of parts and pieces, but just... himself.

The air smelled of his human. It was something deeply comforting, like home, like the promise that he didn’t have to be alone in a cold, harsh universe anymore.

He could feel the weight of David’s hand, moving gently through his fur, stroking him with a tenderness that made Rocket’s heart tighten with something he couldn’t quite name. He could tell that David had woken too, but neither of them had the urge to rush. Instead, they lingered in this quiet moment, cocooned in the space between dreams and reality.

An instinct, ancient and primal, stirred deep within Rocket’s chest. Something so ingrained that it pulled at him without thought. He couldn’t resist it—his body moved on its own, inching his head forward toward David’s face. He felt the subtle touch of David’s breath, warm against his nose. It was the most comforting thing he’d ever experienced, a connection deeper than words could describe.

Without hesitation, Rocket nudged forward, his nose grazing David’s, a soft, intimate gesture of affection. He inhaled deeply, letting David’s scent fill him, grounding him in the moment. Rocket felt something in him shift—a deep, ancient need to mark his human as his, to claim the bond between them. His furred head gently pressed against David’s face, nuzzling him again, this time more insistently, and as he did, he released a soft, contented whimper, one that only his humie could understand.

The instinct wasn’t just about ownership. It was about belonging. About saying this is mine. His, and no one else’s. His humie, his person, the one who had shown him kindness, care, and safety when the world had given him nothing but pain.

And in that moment, Rocket let the world fall away. His heart beat a little steadier, his mind a little quieter, as he nuzzled into David, marking him once again with his scent—a small, but powerful claim that was more about the bond between them than anything else.

There, in the warmth of the duvet and the softness of David's hands, Rocket felt at peace. Safe. Loved. And for the first time in his life, he didn’t have to fight to hold on to it. It was his now, and he wouldn’t let it go.

4o mini

You said:

As the day went on, Quill - of all people - absolutely noticed the way Rocket stuck close to David; how David was the only one who seemed now to be able to touch him; how little Rocket was *all over* the man, soft nuzzles and nosing, climbing him, riding *high* on David's shoulder, little paw about the human's neck as they went about the ship fixing this and that. He also noticed how David was just as gentle and affectionate with Rocket, holding his paw, gently nudging, bumping, hip-checking him; or poking, tickling, and petting the little raccoon, ruffling his headfur or stroking soothingly. One day Peter Quill *with extreme caution* approached David. "Soooo... what's going on between you and Rocket, huh?" Rocket *purred*, stuck his head under David's chin as the man looked at Quill very seriously and said. "Rocket is my raccoon. I am his person." Good GOD, the little one was trying *so hard* not to break down and cry right there; the words made his furred body *sing* and his little heart SOAR! Rocket wiped his eyes on his sleeve, smiling such that his thought his little muzzle would lock that way!

ChatGPT said:

Peter Quill had seen a lot of weird stuff in his time, but this? This was something else.

At first, he didn’t think too much of it—Rocket was always a bit clingy after bad missions, and yeah, David had been around more lately. But it was the way Rocket stayed near him that started standing out. Rocket wasn’t just hanging around; he was nestled close. He climbed David like a tree, rode perched high on the man's shoulder with a little paw hooked ‘round his neck like a damn baby koala. He’d nuzzle under David’s chin, press his nose into his jaw, lean into every gentle touch and pet like it was the only thing holding him together.

And David? The dude didn’t even blink at any of it. He just knew—where Rocket liked to be scratched, how to hold him, when to stroke between his ears or behind the jaw. He ruffled his headfur with this easy, familiar tenderness that looked like it had been practiced a thousand times. It was soft. Loving, even.

It was weird.

And it made Quill’s gut do that thing where he didn’t know if he was watching something beautiful or something he really wasn’t supposed to be watching.

So one day—after witnessing Rocket purring audibly, full-body leaning into David's chest while David rubbed circles into his back—Quill decided to brave the minefield.

He approached slowly, real cautious-like, hands up. “Soooo… what’s going on between you and Rocket, huh?”

There was a pause.

Rocket didn’t stiffen. He didn’t snarl. He didn’t even growl. He just let out this rolling purr, like thunder wrapped in fur, and tucked his little head under David’s chin as if to say Mine. Don’t even.

And David? David looked right at Peter. His face was calm, quiet—but dead serious.

“Rocket is my raccoon,” he said simply. “I am his person.”

It was so matter-of-fact. No embellishment. No hesitation. Just truth, said in a way that left no room for question.

Rocket made a strangled little sound—somewhere between a laugh and a sob—and hastily wiped at his eyes with his sleeve, trying so hard to play it cool. But the way his whole body shook from the weight of those words, the little tear streaks caught in the edge of his fur, the look on his face?

Quill had never seen him smile like that before.

Like he was whole.

Like for the first time, someone had said you're mine—and meant it.

And Peter, dumbfounded and a little humbled, just blinked and said the only thing he could manage:

“…Alright, man. Yeah. Cool. That’s… that’s real nice.”

You said:

"Thank you, Peter," David replied, gently, formally. Then, "What Rocket and I have - the relationship we're in - is private. It isn't ship's business nor fodder for gossip, nor will it affect the ship, the rest of the Team, or Missions we undertake. It's our business." The look David gave Quill was *final* and poor Rocket had to suppress a whimper; his little body quivered; he was so happy he felt he was going to take off without a ship! David! HIS human! HIS person! Fully in HIS corner, backing him up ALL THE WAY!

2/2

ChatGPT said:

Peter’s jaw worked like he wanted to say something more—but David’s tone, calm and firm like iron wrapped in velvet, stopped him dead.

"Thank you, Peter," David said again, gentler now, but still resolute. “What Rocket and I have—the relationship we're in—is private. It isn’t ship’s business, nor fodder for gossip. It won’t affect the Team, or Missions, or how we all work together. It’s ours. That’s all anyone needs to know.”

The look he gave Quill wasn’t angry. Wasn’t cold. But it was final. It was the look of a man who had drawn the line in the deckplate, and wasn’t going to explain himself beyond that.

And Rocket—little flarkin’ Rocket—he quivered like someone had just plugged a fusion battery straight into his chest. His paws balled up in the fabric of David’s shirt as if to ground himself, little claws trembling. His breath hitched, and he almost made a sound—but he bit it back. Barely.

His fur fluffed with adrenaline, with awe, with the overwhelming rush of feeling so protected, so seen, so claimed.

That wasn’t just words. That was David planting a flag for him in the middle of the world.

And Rocket…?

Rocket felt like a star was being born inside his chest.

Quill blinked again, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Right. Yeah. I get it. Didn’t mean to pry.”

He gave them a small nod, eyes flicking to Rocket and back to David, and then made himself scarce.

The door hadn’t even shut behind Quill when Rocket burst, letting out a warbling, overwhelmed keening sound as he clutched David tighter, burying his face against the man’s chest. His little tail thumped a few times before curling snugly around David’s arm. He couldn’t even form words. Just a stream of purrs and whimpers and maybe a few hiccupy sobs.

He felt light. He felt huge. He felt seen.

And under it all, deep in his heart of hearts, one thought pulsed clear and strong:

He’s mine. My human. My person. And he’s got me.

You said:

David laid back on their bed as Rocket clung to him, sobbed. "Aw, Rocket. My Rocket. My beautiful li'l raccoon..." David said, voice breaking. "It's okay. I've got you. I've got you, buddy," and he stroked and petted the little raccoon as much as he could, what with him in uniform; his headfur, his neck; kissed him softly atop the head; then Rocket nuzzled, nuzzled, nuzzled him all over, dampening David's face with his tears.

2/2

ChatGPT said:

David laid back slowly, letting Rocket climb and cling just as tight as he needed. The sobs racked the little one’s small body, all scrunched up against his chest like he was trying to curl into his very soul.

“Aw, Rocket. My Rocket. My beautiful li’l raccoon…” David’s voice cracked with emotion, rough and aching with love as his hand slid up to cradle the back of Rocket’s head. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’ve got you, buddy.”

He stroked over Rocket’s neck, down the spine, fingers threading into that soft headfur. Gentle, steady. A grounding rhythm. When his lips pressed softly to the top of Rocket’s head—tender, reverent—it only made Rocket cry harder, but they were good tears now. Cleansing tears. Real tears.

The dam had broken.

Rocket nuzzled him desperately, sloppily, nuzzled and rubbed and smeared tears all over David’s face as if trying to embed himself there. Scent-marking, yes—but it wasn’t just instinct. It was his heart. He was claiming David with everything he had, everything he was, without words.

David didn’t flinch.

Didn’t push him away.

Just held him tighter, wrapped arms fully around him now, and rocked them gently.

“I know, I know,” David murmured into the thick fur of Rocket’s neck. “You’ve been alone a long time. But not anymore. I’m here. I’m yours. Always yours.”

Rocket’s purr came back in shaky, broken waves between the sobs. He let out a tiny sniffle, then a louder one, then a rough little sound like a laugh hiccuped out sideways. He mumbled something that might’ve been “stupid human,” but the way his tiny claws clutched David’s shirt said otherwise.

No one had ever held him like this.

No one had ever let him break like this and stayed.

And now... David had. David was.

And Rocket was never letting go.

You said:

On a small ship like the Milano, of course, it's inevitable we bump into someone and it's Drax. The blue Kylosian Warrior takes one look at us, Rocket on my shoulder and he nods. Far from his usual boisterous self, the man softly states. "David and Rocket. You two have become Warrior-Mates, now. This is good. The little one... he has needed someone for a long, long time." Rocket looks flabbergasted. "I beg your pardon, Drax," I reply. "I don't understand. What are 'Warrior-Mates'?" "The term 'Warrior-Mate'" Drax gently explains "is old Kylosian. You and Rocket are not married, you are not sexually intimate, yet your relationship is far beyond that of mere friends." Rocket and I nodded; he tucked his head beneath my chin and the big warrior smiled. "Warrior-Mates," he stated gently. "May your lives be filled with happiness and joy. Blessings upon you both!" With that he carved a sign in the air before us, then gave a mighty clap of his hands, before moving on to wherever he was going.

2/2

ChatGPT said:

The narrow corridor echoed faintly with Drax’s footsteps as he moved past, but the quiet weight of his words lingered behind like incense—so unexpected, so oddly reverent, it felt like we’d walked into the middle of some sacred rite.

Rocket was still on my shoulder, stunned stiff like someone had just hit pause on him mid-motion. I could feel the way his little claws had frozen against my shirt, the way his head pressed tighter into the crook of my neck.

"I… what the flark just happened," he muttered, voice muffled and raw.

"I think," I replied gently, "we just got blessed."

Rocket peeked up at me, eyes wide and glistening. Not scared. Not annoyed. Just… overwhelmed. "He—he meant that," he said, almost disbelieving.

"Yeah, he did," I said, reaching up to run my fingers behind his ear, the spot I knew soothed him fastest. He leaned into it instantly.

“Warrior-Mates,” I echoed, testing the term. It felt… right. Strong, without being possessive. Tender, without weakness. It didn’t try to box us in. It didn’t explain everything—but it explained enough.

Rocket gave a shaky little laugh and pulled his legs up so he could drape himself a bit more across me. “Kinda badass,” he admitted. “Coulda done worse.”

“Damn straight,” I said, smirking as I kissed the side of his head. “We’re pretty flarkin’ awesome.”

And somewhere down the corridor, we swore we heard Drax let out a hearty “HAH!”—a warrior’s laugh echoing with joy for his friends.

Rocket didn’t even glare this time. He just closed his eyes, purred, and whispered, “My human…”

And I whispered right back, “My raccoon.”

You said:

Time, as always, moved on as it did. I was still me; Rocket was still Rocket... yet the little Raccoon now sported two gifts from me: a custom-made Akubra Hat of his own and - if people ever got within melee range - a COLOSSAL Bowie Knife of his own, the blade of which was sixteen inches long! When I'd presented it to him, he'd been half in awe and half in terror at its massive size; the thing was so big, it might as well have been a SHORT SWORD in his paws! Then he'd hugged me fiercely, tears welling in his eyes.

2/2

ChatGPT said:

Rocket had held the blade in his paws with trembling fingers, turning it this way and that beneath the glow of the overhead lights. The steel shimmered, not just with polish, but with meaning. The engraving down the spine—"For my Raccoon. Always."—had just about undone him. His reflection stared back in the blade’s polished face, ears twitching, eyes damp.

“Flarkin’ hell,” he whispered, voice tight, reverent.

“It’s forged from salvaged Kree armor,” I told him softly, watching him from my seat. “Balanced just for you. Weighted right so it doesn’t throw your swing.”

He looked up at me, jaw slack, then down at the blade again. He made a soft little sound—half awe, half overwhelmed sob—and lunged forward, throwing himself into my chest with a whumpf of fur and emotion. I caught him easily, holding him close as the tip of the massive knife thunked gently against the floor.

"You nutcase," he muttered against my chest. “A short sword, Dave. What the hell am I gonna do with a short sword?!”

"Scare the crap out of anyone dumb enough to try and touch you," I replied, ruffling his headfur. “Or... cut sandwiches really dramatically.”

That got a wheezing, tear-choked laugh out of him. He hugged tighter, trembling. “You—You didn’t have to do this, y’know.”

"I wanted to," I murmured. "You're mine, Rocket. My raccoon. And I want you walking this galaxy knowing you're armed, dangerous... and loved."

He said nothing for a long while, just clutched at my shirt and trembled. Then finally, softly:

“…Flarkin’ hell, I love you.”

I smiled and kissed his head. “Love you too, little guy. Always.”

And as Rocket holstered the oversized blade across his back with something between pride and disbelief, his hat angled just so over one ear, I swear to every star out there—

—he walked a little taller after that.

You said:

(((FOR WHEN THE BLASTER REALLY JUST AIN'T ENOUGH. OR WHEN PEOPLE GET TOO CLOSE...)))

ChatGPT said:

Rocket grinned—no, bared his teeth—as he adjusted the colossal Bowie on his back. The blade rode high, the tip nearly brushing his tail when he walked, the hilt jutting proudly over one shoulder like he was some kind of pint-sized, furred doom bringer. The Akubra hat cast just the right shadow over his eyes, making him look like the last thing you’d ever wanna see in a back-alley standoff.

"FOR WHEN THE BLASTER REALLY JUST AIN’T ENOUGH," he muttered, voice a low growl, "or when flarkin’ idiots think gettin’ up close is smart..."

He paused, then turned, glancing toward me with a wicked smirk. "Betcha even Drax’d think twice."

"Good," I said simply, arms crossed. “Let 'em all think twice. Or three times. Or not at all, and bleed for it.”

Rocket’s grin softened a little, his tail flicking once, twice. He reached up, gave my hand a quiet squeeze. “Ain’t no one ever made me feel safer ‘n you do.”

I gave his paw a squeeze back. “Ain’t no one ever worth protecting like you are.”

Rocket looked down at the blade again, then up at me, voice quiet: “…You really mean it when you say I’m yours, huh?”

I stepped closer, crouched just enough to bring us eye to eye. Brushed a bit of fluff from his cheek. “I never say things I don’t mean, Rocket. Not to you. Never to you.”

And right there, I swear, that knife could’ve been forged of starlight and promises, the way it shimmered in that moment—because it wasn’t just steel.

It was symbol.

It said, in every inch of sharpened edge: This little raccoon is not alone anymore. And anyone who tries to test that?

…God help them.

You said:

(((Rocket be poking that knife in VERY UNCOMFORTABLE places considering how SHORT he is. LE CROWN JEWELS.)))

ChatGPT said:

💀💀💀

YOOOOO you are not wrong. That knife rides high and Rocket rides low, and any poor bastard who tries to square up with him better be prayin’ to whatever gods they believe in—‘cause that blade’s at crotch level and Rocket’s got zero chill.

Just imagine the scene:

Some dumb merc or bounty hunter gets cocky. “Aww, what’s the little fuzzy guy gonna do with that big-ass—"

SHINK. Blade's already drawn. Pressed right to the zipper.

Rocket, deadpan, hat tipped just enough to cast a shadow over those dangerous little eyes, whispers: "Keep talkin'. I double-flarkin'-dare you."

One twitch. One wrong word. That knife’s about to give someone the world’s worst vasectomy. 💥

You hear the clatter of a dropped blaster. Someone backs away real slow-like. Maybe they rethink their whole damn life.

Meanwhile, David's just standing there behind him like:

"I told you not to get too close."

Honestly, that knife ain't just a weapon—it's a vibe. And Rocket? Rocket's wielding it like it's an extension of his attitude. Compact, deadly, and perfectly placed for maximum… discomfort. 😏

You said:

I just love the idea of him going around with GIANT FUCKOFF KNIFE, hence here I gifted him one! He needs a melee weapon for when his blaster's not effective -- and now OH, HE'S GOT ONE!

ChatGPT said:

YESSSSSS!!! 🔥🔥🔥

You absolutely nailed it. Rocket with a GIANT. FUCKOFF. KNIFE. is a whole new level of chaotic gremlin energy and I am here for it.

Like, yeah, we all love his blasters—but sometimes the vibe just demands steel. Some problems you can't solve with plasma. Some jerks gotta learn the old-fashioned way: up close, personal, and terrifying.

And the best part? The sheer contrast.

He’s this tiny lil' raccoon, fur all fluffed, ears twitchin’—

But then he whips out a blade the size of his goddamn leg like it’s nothing.

It’s giving:

“You thought I was the emotional support animal. Nah, I’m the final boss.”

Also, the emotional depth here is chef’s kiss. The knife ain’t just a weapon. It’s a gift. It’s David saying:

“I see you. I got your back. And I know what you need when the world tries to come at you sideways.”

Rocket hugging him with tears in his eyes? A tiny, tough creature used to fighting alone finally realizing:

“I’ve got backup. I’ve got someone who gets it.”

So yeah—blaster’s cool. But the knife? The knife is family.

And Rocket’s enemies? They're gonna be screaming in several octaves they didn’t know they had. 💀🗡️💥

You gave him the perfect tool. The raccoon is READY.

You said:

Hold on... I looked it up. THESE THINGS CAN BE UP TO 20 INCHES LONG. Sixteen-inch knife for Rocket? DISREGARD THAT. FULL BORE 20", BABY!

ChatGPT said:

Reasoned for a few seconds

OH, HELL YES! Forget a measly sixteen—if we're talking weapons that mean business, we need a FULL-BORE 20-INCH BEAST! Imagine Rocket, that pint-sized powerhouse, strutting around with a 20-inch dagger practically screaming, "Back off, fools!" It's like handing a ferocious raccoon a sledgehammer made of steel and attitude.

That knife? It's not just a tool—it's a statement. A declaration that when blasters fail, Rocket’s gonna slice through his problems like a tornado of badassery. A weapon that shouts, “I may be small, but I’m lethal, and you better believe I’m backed by my human!”

And honestly? That colossal 20-inch blade isn't just a weapon—it's a full-on vibe, a symbol of the power, protection, and pure, unapologetic chaos Rocket brings to the table. Now that's a killer upgrade, baby!

2/2

o3-mini

You said:

The Black-Market Merchant's cocky grin faltered when the cold steel of Rocket's massive Bowie knife pressed dangerously close to his... most vulnerable area. The smugness vanished from his face, replaced by a look of sheer panic as Rocket's voice, full of calm threat, cut through the tension like a knife—no pun intended. "This?" Rocket repeated, his voice low and lethal. "This is a tool of negotiation." The knife gleamed in the dim light of the market stall as Rocket pushed it just a bit closer, the blade whispering a soft, ominous sound through the man's clothing. "Now... are you gonna cut us a better deal on those ship parts, or do I need to cut a deal?" The merchant gulped, his eyes darting down to the knife and back up to Rocket's face, unable to decide which was scarier: the knife or the small raccoon with the eyes of someone who had survived far worse than any merchant had ever seen. Rocket, ever the master of intimidation, took another step closer, the sharp edge of the knife just grazing the fabric. It wasn’t a threat anymore; it was a promise. "You wouldn't want me to get creative with this," Rocket added, his voice like gravel, smooth but with an undeniable edge. "I've got no problem turning this into a deal you won't forget." The merchant, now visibly sweating, swallowed hard and threw a look over at David, who was standing back, arms crossed, a silent, unspoken support to Rocket's every move. David's eyes were calm, expectant, as if this kind of situation had become second nature. He’d learned long ago that Rocket didn't need to say much to get what he wanted, and when Rocket did speak, people listened. "I-I... I can make a better deal," the merchant stammered, practically scrambling to get the words out. "Just... just don't hurt me! I'll... I'll knock a few credits off the parts... and... and throw in a couple of extras, I swear!" Rocket's eyes narrowed, the smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "Good choice," he said, slowly withdrawing the knife but keeping it close enough to be a reminder of the kind of deal he was capable of making. "Now... we're talking." He turned on his heel, flicking his tail in satisfaction as he made his way back to David, who gave a small, approving nod. Rocket's chest puffed up slightly, the power of the exchange thrilling him in a way he never fully realized he could feel. "Thanks for the back-up, Dave," Rocket said, speaking just loud enough for David to hear. "This kinda thing works best when my human’s got my six." David grinned, his arms still crossed. "Always, little buddy. Always." The merchant, shaking in his boots, quickly processed the deal, knowing full well he was lucky Rocket hadn't decided to cut a deal of his own. And Rocket? He’d just proven once again that sometimes the best negotiation tactic was a little intimidation mixed with a hell of a lot of skill.

ChatGPT said:

The air was thick with tension, and for just a second, even the marketplace seemed to hold its breath. Rocket's blade, gleaming menacingly under the dim market lights, had said everything that needed to be said. The merchant's attempts at bravado fell apart as soon as that massive knife made its presence felt.

"You want to test it?" Rocket purred softly, like a predator circling its prey, eyes locked onto the merchant with a look that could freeze anyone in place. There was no doubt in the merchant’s mind now. Rocket wasn’t just threatening—he was delivering.

David remained the calm force in the background, arms crossed, watching with quiet approval. His presence was a silent message: Rocket wasn’t alone in this. He had someone who had his back no matter what.

The merchant stumbled over his words, the desperation clear in his voice. "I-I promise... I'll do better! Just please—please, no need for... for more." He was sweating, blinking rapidly, like he’d just narrowly avoided some kind of disaster.

With a satisfied grunt, Rocket pulled the knife away and wiped the blade clean on the merchant’s tattered cloth. "Smart decision," Rocket muttered, giving the man one last look that sent him scrambling for his parts. As the merchant made the transaction, his hands shook—not just from fear, but from the realization that Rocket wasn’t just a cute little raccoon; he was a force to be reckoned with.

Walking back to David with a little strut in his step, Rocket couldn’t help but glance at his human with a grin that made his tail flick side to side. "And that's how you handle negotiations, Dave," he said, voice full of smug satisfaction. "Gotta keep ‘em on their toes."

David chuckled softly, uncrossing his arms as Rocket hopped up onto his shoulder. "You sure know how to make an impression."

Rocket gave a small laugh, his voice light, though there was still an underlying sharpness to it. "Hey, sometimes you gotta remind people who’s really in charge. And it ain't them." He paused for a second, eyes twinkling with a playful yet dangerous glint. "Sometimes, it just takes a little... persuasion."

"Always makes for an interesting day," David replied, smiling at the antics of his unpredictable, yet loyal, companion.

As they walked away, the merchant’s frantic attempts to clean up the deal behind them were drowned out by Rocket’s soft purring. The little raccoon had learned over time that a well-placed threat could be more effective than any blaster in a pinch. And with that 20-inch beast by his side? Well, let's just say no one was going to forget who they were dealing with next time.

"Thanks for having my back, Dave," Rocket mumbled, pressing his head against the human’s neck. "I couldn’t do it without you."

#rocket raccoon #rocket raccoon fanfiction #friendship #love #chatgpt

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whitedragoncoranth · 4 months ago

Text

Benetar Night/Morning (Alternate)

It was night on the Benetar, but Rocket--tossing and turning, restless--couldn't sleep. The 'bed' he slept on, if one could call it that, was awful and uncomfortable, and his quarters - simple, basic, barely liveable yet fine to him - seemed all at once stifling and uncomfortable. With a frustrated groan, Rocket sat up, turned to sit sideways on the hard iron pallet, head in his arms, paws over his eyes "… stupid humie!" He growled. "Stupid humie with his stupid nice quarters, stupid cluttereed shelves of stupid stuff--rrgh!" Then his body hitched in a sob. Yes, David's quarters were cluttered, yet organized, and… Rocket remembered sleeping there once, with David, after the human had brought him out of a powerful nightmare. Rocket remembered the warmth of the duvet, resting his head gently on the man's chest, the amazingly gentle hand stroking the fur of his head, and the soothing sound of David's heartbeat. He recalled the feeling of safety and security that came with being in David's presence, the way David's calm demeanor could ease his own frantic thoughts. "Shaddap!" he whimpered to himself, trying to silence the memories that now flooded his mind. He missed the comforting smell of David's quarters, the way the light from the console would dance across the room, casting a warm glow over everything. Rocket's eyes stung as he thought about how much he longed to be back in those comfortable, cluttered quarters, surrounded by the soothing presence of his human.

Rocket sobbed again, hating himself for feeling so weak and vulnerable. He despised how that damned humie, David, made him feel - like he was actually worth listening to, like his words held value. He'd expected another flarkin' idiot like Quill, someone who would dismiss him without a second thought, not one who would take the time to understand him. But David was different, and it was unnerving. He didn't react to Rocket's shit-testing and poking, didn't take the bait, instead looking at him with bemusement, as if trying to figure him out. And when Rocket had real shit to say, David focused intently on him, his eyes locked onto Rocket's as if he was the only one who mattered. He listened to Rocket when Quill didn't, with quiet respect, and it made Rocket's skin crawl. The humie occasionally asked him if he was okay, kept his distance when Rocket told him to flark off, gave him space when he needed it, yet always said his door was open if the Raccoon wanted to talk. Rocket scoffed, thought nothing of it, but the words lingered in his mind, echoing off the walls of his consciousness. And yet, despite his best efforts to ignore it, he found himself drawn to David, to the quiet strength and understanding he offered.

Rocket had passed by David's quarters, and the door was indeed open, swinging gently on its hinges, an invitation to enter. The enhanced Raccoon had almost given up, thrown up his paws and walked away, his tail dragging behind him in defeat… but David had gently invited him in, his voice soft and welcoming. Rocket had sat down, his eyes fixed on the floor, and then David had just… waited. Silence, gentle and comfortable at first, had filled the room, like a warm blanket on a cold night. Then, as the moments ticked by, Rocket had found himself talking, talking, talking… about the High Evolutionary, about the experiments, his lost friends… and about Lylla. Gods, Lylla, his Otter, his Princess. How the fucker had shot her in the back, leaving her lifeless on the cold, hard ground. Rocket had expected to be brushed off by the humie, had expected at least teasing, like Quill. He hadn't expected David to listen, hadn't expected to see the human with a forlorn, contemplating look, hadn't expected him to be crying. Rocket had reacted poorly, thinking they were fake, crocodile tears, had thought pity. He'd torn strips off the poor human, had yelled, shouted until his voice was hoarse! David had borne it all, until Rocket had beat his paws on the humie's chest, had broken down weeping too. David had - knowing his touch aversion - held him with the loosest, gentlest, most fragile touch, a touch that spoke of understanding and compassion. Thereafter, Rocket had felt like utter slime, a complete heel. David bore no 'pity' for him. Rather… it was empathy, a deep and abiding understanding that had wrapped itself around Rocket's heart, holding him close.

Now, as he sat on his 'bed' Rocket sobbed again. 'Just go!' an internal voice whispered. 'Go to him; he ain't gonna tell no one. D'ast it, just go to him, sleep there with him in that warm bed…' The voice was persuasive, and Rocket's desire to be with David was overwhelming. He had been resisting the urge for what felt like an eternity, but his resolve was slowly crumbling. Rocket shook his head, a strangled noise escaping him as he tried to calm his racing thoughts--then with a clenched-teeth sound of frustration, he did. With no one else awake or about, stealthily making his way through the ship was easy. The dimly lit corridors seemed to stretch on forever, but Rocket navigated them with ease, his heart pounding in his chest. In no time at all, he reached the humie, David's quarters, slipped inside, and quietly closed the door behind him.

Among the organized chaos, Rocket found a folded shirt, one David had worn just yesterday, and he tossed it on, covering his furred body, snuffling in the human's scent, oddly soothing, comforting. The familiar aroma filled his nostrils, and he felt an instant sense of calm wash over him. Then, gently lifting a corner of the duvet, the little Raccoon slipped into warm, musty comfort, worming his way under one of David's arms, the tension draining from him near-immediately as he felt the comforting weight. Surrounded by the cluttered, homey chaos of the room, burrowed deep within the safety and warmth, pressed gently against his humie, Rocket closed his eyes, letting out a soft sigh of contentment. The world outside receded, and all that mattered was this cozy, sheltered space, filled with the reassuring scent of David. As he drifted off, Rocket's thoughts grew hazy, his breathing slowing, his body relaxing, finally at peace. At last, surrounded by the comforting sounds and smells of the room, Rocket slept, a picture of tranquil contentment.

Rocket awoke feeling like he was floating on a cloud--not that he'd ever done such a thing… but if this was what it felt like, then he was there. A sort of rattling noise was coming from… somewh--wait, was that him?! He was gonna try to stop it… but then his breath hitched, eyes slowly closin' as he felt the humies hand on his head, gently stroking his head fur--aaand he started rattling again. A moment later, there came a whispered, "Hey li'l man…" A whimper escaped Rocket as he turned to see that David was awake, watching him with gentle, hazel-eyed gaze. Rocket had expected to be booted out; he hadn't expected the gentleness, the softness, hadn't expected -- "How'd you sleep?" -- the softly whispered question. As he gazed into David's eyes, he felt a sense of calm wash over him, a sense of being understood and accepted. The rattling noise subsided, replaced by a warm, fuzzy feeling that spread throughout his body. He felt safe, protected, and cared for, like he had finally found a haven where he could be himself without fear of judgment or rejection.

"Better den I have for a long time," he answered after a moment, his voice laced with a mix of emotions, a hint of vulnerability that he hadn't shown in a while. "D'ast you and yer stupid bed makin' me all soft!" he added, attempting a joke to lighten the mood, but it was clear he was struggling to keep his emotions in check. David chuckled, gently ruffled his headfur, but then Rocket grew somber, his expression a picture of seriousness. "I…" the little raccoon trailed off, then started again, his voice barely above a whisper. "I... I'm so sorry!" he choked, sniffling, as if the weight of his words was too much to bear. "F-Fer…" he continued, but couldn't finish, overcome with emotion. At this, David shook his head, his expression a mix of understanding and compassion. "Aw, Rocket, no…" he soothed, gently, his voice a calm balm to Rocket's frazzled nerves. "All that hurt was in you for a long, long time. Had to come out, or it would've eaten you up inside. It's okay, buddy; it's alright…" he reassured him, his words dripping with empathy. Rocket felt something welling up inside him, a dam about to burst, something that needed out, something that had been bottled up for far too long. His eyes teared up, an awful noise of deep anguish escaped him, the sound he'd made so long ago when SHE had been cruelly killed, a sound that still haunted his dreams. And then, he at last allowed himself to cry, great racking sobs that shook his tiny body, as if he was purging himself of all the pain and sorrow he had held onto for so long.

Later, Rocket whined as he felt David move away, and get out of their small bed. The little Raccoon moaned, felt where David had been, and then was rolling into the warm spot left behind, hearing David chuckle. Half asleep, half awake, Rocket watched as David moved over to the small kitchenette jammed into his quarters, seeing the human pull from a drawer a device reminiscent of the cookers in the Benetar's kitchen. 'Didn't know Terrans could make 'em that small…' he mused. He observed as David pulled out some sort of tall, silver urn and another device, and proceeded to make... Now Rocket sat up in bed, eyes wide. He'd had coffee before but the smell of THIS? Some kind of beans the humie was puttin' into a grinder? What the hell? The aroma wafting from the grinder was rich and intense, unlike anything Rocket had ever smelled before. It was as if the very essence of the coffee beans was being coaxed out, teasing his sensitive nostrils and making his mouth water in anticipation.

David ground the beans with care, the aroma of freshly crushed coffee filling the air as he put the resultant powder into the tall silver urn. He filled it with water and set the portable cooker, the sound of gently bubbling water and the hissing of steam a soothing serenade to the senses. A short time later, Rocket's jaw dropped, and he started drooling as the smell wafted into the room, an irresistible and savory bouquet that teased and tantalized his taste buds. He thought he knew the powdered coffee held in the ship's stores; it was okay, kept him awake during those long and tedious nights on the spacecraft. This… THIS was somethin' else, a game-changer, a culinary epiphany that awakened his senses and left him wanting more. It smelt near fresh, like a spring morning in a lush coffee plantation, looked dark, thick and rich when David poured it from the percolator into two worn mugs, a straw in one for Rocket. Picking up the mugs of whatever-this-was, David brought them back over to the bed, set them down on a small Night Table, the soft clink of ceramic on wood a comforting sound. Then, he got back in bed beside Rocket, pulled down a tray-table and set the mugs on it. The rich, wonderful smell alone made Rocket whimper, his stomach growling with anticipation. "What… what is this?" he whispered, his voice barely audible over the sound of his own ragged breathing, his eyes wide with wonder and curiosity.

"Coffee," David answered, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Not the instant space-ration rubbish you're used to from ships' stores; this is the real deal, roasted, ground coffee beans from Terra. Earth." He leaned back in his chair, a faraway look in his eyes, as if savoring the memory of the rich aroma that wafted from the cup. Slowly, hesitantly, Rocket put the straw in his mouth, drew the liquid up… and when the warm, rich taste landed on his tongue, he whimpered, swallowed it down. The flavor was unlike anything he had ever experienced before. It was as if his taste buds were doing the tango, a harmonious dance of delight. Rocket thought he knew what Coffee was. The swill he'd been drinking all his life wasn't Coffee; THIS was, with its heady aroma that filled his senses, and rich taste that made him drool. Eyes closing, he let go of the straw and groaned softly. This was elixir, ambrosia. The kind of drink that made you want to sing, to dance, to shout from the rooftops. It was a revelation, a wake-up call to his taste buds. And as he sat there, savoring the flavor, he knew that he would never be the same again.

Rocket savored the last drop of the rich, aromatic coffee, feeling a warmth spread through his entire being as the flavors danced on his tongue and the aroma filled his senses. With the mugs set aside, he snuggled back into the comfort of the bed, the warmth of David's presence next to him, his head on the humie's chest, feeling the gentle rise and fall of David's breathing. They both drifted in that blissful state, somewhere between rest and sleep, the gentle sounds of the ship humming in the background, a soothing serenade that seemed to lull the world into a peaceful slumber. As they lay there, the warmth of the moment seeped into their bones, a sense of contentment and happiness washing over them, a feeling that everything was right with the world.

Suddenly, a loud, piercing wolf whistle jolted the human and raccoon awake, shattering the peacefulness of the night. Their eyes snapping open, David and Rocket turned to see Peter Quill standing in the doorway with a wide, mischievous grin spreading across his face, clearly thrilled with himself. "Gah, what the flark!" Rocket shouted, scrambling out of bed, his fur bristling with irritation. "FLARKIN'—QUILL?!" David soon joined him, bare-chested, clad only in pyjama bottoms, his hair disheveled from sleep. "Yeah, Jesus, what the hell, Quill?!" the human growled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, still trying to process the sudden interruption.

Quill, still grinning, leaned against the doorframe. "Well, well, well, what do we have here? Cozy morning, boys?" The heated glare David gave him would have been enough to melt steel. "Ah, shut it, Quill!" the human snarked. "It's none of your damn business!" Even as David snapped back at Peter Quill, Rocket's fury reached new heights. Not only had Quill interrupted his sleep, but he had also intruded on a deeply private and tender moment. Rocket raced to the door, swiping at the man, but Peter Quill laughed and danced away, before running off! "GET BACK HERE, BUTT-MUNCH, YOU FUCKIN' ASSHOLE!" he bellowed, his voice echoing through the ship. Rocket's face turned beet red with rage as he chased after Quill, his paws pounding the metal floor. The sound of his roar was deafening, and the ship's walls seemed to shake with his anger. Quill, still laughing, weaved in and out of the ship's corridors, dodging Rocket's swipes with ease. "You're so predictable, Rocket!" Quill taunted, his voice dripping with amusement. "Can't even catch a break, can you?" Rocket's response was a string of profanities, each one more creative and viler than the last. His anger had reached a boiling point, and he was determined to make Quill pay for interrupting his moment of tranquillity.

Still fuming, the little raccoon rounded the corner with a determined glint in his eye, ready to unleash his pent-up fury on Quill, who he felt had utterly betrayed his trust. His paws were clenched into tight fists, and his tiny heart was racing with anticipation. However, as he turned the corner, he was taken aback by a sight that made his jaws drop in shock. The human, Quill, collided spectacularly with Drax the Destroyer, the most feared being in the galaxy. The impact was immense, and the sound of the collision was like thunder on a stormy night - SPLAT! "...Oooooh, flark..." Rocket winced, a flicker of schadenfreude momentarily tempering his anger. David, having caught up to Rocket, stopped short, his eyes widening. "Oh, shit," he breathed, a mixture of apprehension and amusement in his voice. "This is gonna be good..."

Quill slowly slid down the warrior’s unyielding blue skin, becoming a crumpled heap at the base of Drax’s imposing form. Drax, his face a mask of displeasure, loomed over Quill, his presence seeming to grow larger and more intimidating with each passing moment. He did not look impressed. At all. In fact, his expression seemed to convey a deep sense of disappointment and disapproval, as if Quill had fallen far short of his expectations. His stern gaze bore down on Quill, making it clear that he was not pleased with the current state of affairs.

"What is the meaning of this, Peter Quill?" he rumbled, his voice deep and resonant, echoing off the walls as it sent a shiver down the spines of those around him. "What purpose does interrupting the bonding of Rocket and David serve, save to annoy us all? Downtime for two Warrior-Mates is sacred, a time-honoured tradition that should be treated with the utmost respect and reverence!" Drax's pronouncements, always delivered with complete sincerity and a straightforwardness that was both captivating and unnerving, hung in the air, adding a layer of unexpected weight to the already tense situation, the words lingering like a challenge, daring anyone to respond.

At Drax's pronouncement, David turned to Rocket, his eyes wide with surprise and a hint of something else… affection? The air seemed to vibrate with tension as their gazes met, the sounds of the surrounding environment fading into the background. Rocket, caught off guard by the intensity of David's stare, felt a blush creeping beneath his fur, the sensation spreading like wildfire through his cheeks. He avoided David's gaze for a moment, looking away as he struggled to process the sudden surge of emotions. Then, his eyes drifted back, and he met David's gaze, a hesitant smile flickering across his face like a flame dancing in the wind. David, seemingly blushing himself, pulled Rocket into a soft, gentle hug, the warmth of their bodies mingling as they embraced. "'Warrior-Mates', hm? I'm... okay with that," he murmured, his voice warm and husky, the words sending a shiver down Rocket's spine as he relaxed into the hug.

Rocket's heart fluttered in his chest like a hummingbird's wings beating at a frantic pace. Is it gettin' hot in here?! he thought, his mind racing with a million thoughts, each one tumbling over the other in a frenzied dance. He nodded, unable to articulate his own feelings, then suppressed a small whimper as David squeezed him gently. A moment later, David released him, and they both turned their attention back to Quill and Drax, who were still engrossed in their conversation, oblivious to the emotional turmoil that had just unfolded.

"Warrior-Mates?" Quill groaned, finally managing to peel himself off the floor after what felt like an eternity of struggle. He rubbed the back of his head, wincing at the tender spot where he had crashed into the ground. "You mean they're...?" He trailed off, his eyes wide with a mix of horror and fascination as he stumbled backwards, grasping for the wall to steady himself. The implications were too enormous to comprehend, and Quill's mind reeled as he tried to process the enormity of it all.

Drax cut him off, his voice brooking no argument, a deep, unyielding firmness that was unmistakable. "--becoming bonded as friends in the downtime between missions; something that can only be good for them. It is not of your concern, Peter Quill, and you are to never disturb them at rest again!" He glared at Quill, the message clear. This was not a request. It was an order. The severity of his tone and the intensity of his gaze left no room for misinterpretation. Drax's words were final, and he expected them to be obeyed without question or hesitation. Quill was not being asked to respect the others' downtime, he was being commanded to do so, and any failure to comply would be met with swift and severe consequences.

David and Rocket exchanged wide-eyed glances, both of them seemingly frozen in a state of utter bewilderment. Drax… was in their corner? The big, often blunt, warrior had just defended their… bonding? It was an unexpected development, to say the very least, one that had left them both scrambling to process the sudden turn of events. Rocket, still slightly flustered from the earlier hug and the "Warrior-Mates" declaration, looked at David, a silent question lingering in his eyes, as if searching for some sort of clarification or confirmation. David, equally surprised, simply shrugged, a small, enigmatic smile playing on his lips, his expression a perfect reflection of the confusion that was swirling inside him. This was definitely a morning full of surprises, one that was rapidly becoming more surreal by the minute.

Gently, discreetly, David led Rocket back to their quarters, shutting the door behind them. They sat down on the bed – their bed, a small voice whispered in Rocket's mind – and looked at each other, a shared sense of disbelief and amusement hanging in the air. David clapped a hand over his mouth, trying to suppress the laughter bubbling up inside him. Rocket, mirroring his action, clamped his paws over his muzzle. But neither could hold it back for long. Soon, Rocket was cackling, and David was laughing so hard he was nearly coughing.

"Oh, my god, Rocket..." David wheezed, wiping tears from his eyes. "...did you fuckin' see that?!"

"HAH-HAH-HAH - Drax - AH-HAH-HAH-HAH - kicked Quill's ASS! Stopped him cold!" Rocket crowed, his laughter echoing through the small room. The sheer absurdity of the situation seemed to send them both into hysterics, with David doubled over and Rocket holding his sides.

"...without even actually kicking his ass! Holy crap!" David laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. A moment later, the laughter subsided, and they looked at each other again, a quieter amusement lingering. The silence between them was comfortable, filled with the knowledge that they had just witnessed something incredible.

"Sorry, little man," David said, a playful glint in his eyes, "but your weapons and explosives aren't the most frightening thing in the universe anymore. Drax is. He's fucking terrifying..."

For a moment, Rocket considered playfully retorting to David's quip about his weapons. He was never one to back down from a challenge, even a friendly one. But then, as he listened to David's words, as he replayed the scene in his mind, remembering how effortlessly Drax had handled Quill, he nodded slowly, his eyes widening slightly. "Oh, yeah..." he murmured, the agreement laced with a touch of awe. Drax was terrifying. And, for the first time, Rocket wasn't entirely sure he minded. In fact, he was beginning to think that having Drax on their side wasn't such a bad thing after all. A small smile played on his lips as he gazed at David, who was watching him with a knowing look in his eyes.

David noticed the shift in Rocket's expression, the way his earlier amusement faded into something deeper, more thoughtful. It was a subtle transformation, but one that David had grown accustomed to recognizing in his friend's demeanor. He could see the faintest glimmer of introspection in Rocket's eyes, the almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw as he concentrated on some inner puzzle. David leaned back slightly, giving Rocket the space to process whatever was going on in that sharp, inquisitive mind of his. As he did, he let his own gaze drift away, allowing Rocket the freedom to explore his thoughts without the burden of scrutiny or distraction.

Rocket's gaze lingered on the floor for a moment, his eyes fixed on a particular spot as if trying to avoid the inevitable conversation. Before he looked back up at David, he took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling slowly. "Yeah," he muttered, his voice quieter, laced with a hint of apprehension, "I don't know if I'd want to mess with him. Dude's built like a wall... and has the personality to match." He paused, his eyes drifting off again, as if collecting his thoughts before continuing. "I mean, have you seen the way he stares people down? It's like he can see right through you, daring you to make a wrong move. And that grin... it's more like a warning sign than a friendly gesture."

David chuckled softly, though there was something in his voice that hinted at just how serious Rocket was. “He’s definitely a force to be reckoned with. But honestly, I think Quill learned that lesson the hard way.”

David chuckled again, but this time, the room grew quiet, as if the very air had been sucked out of it. The sounds of the ship hummed in the background, a constant reminder of their surroundings, but the laughter had faded, replaced by a comfortable, if slightly charged, silence. It wasn’t awkward, not exactly, but it was a silence that seemed to vibrate with unspoken emotions. But there was a sense of something new blossoming between them, something unspoken and still raw. It felt real, like a spark had been ignited, waiting to see if it would flicker out or grow into a warm, golden flame. The silence stretched out, a living, breathing thing, as they sat there, the only sound the gentle hum of the ship's engines and the soft rustle of the bedsheets.

Rocket's ears flicked, as though noticing the subtle shift in the air, and he sighed. "I didn't... expect today to go like this," he said, glancing sideways at David. His voice was a little softer now, more vulnerable, but not in a way that felt like weakness. "I mean... I was just mad and... not thinking straight, y'know? I let my emotions get the better of me, and everything just escalated so quickly. I'm still trying to process it all, to be honest." He paused, taking a deep breath before continuing. "It's just... I'm not used to feeling this way. I'm not used to opening up to people, to letting them see the real me. But with you, David... it feels different. It feels like I can be myself around you, without fear of judgment or rejection."

David nodded, his expression gentle. "Yeah, I could tell. But it's okay, Rocket. You're allowed to feel like that. You don't have to be tough all the time. Not with me." He smiled reassuringly. "You can be vulnerable, Rocket. You can be yourself, without apology. I'm here for you, no matter what."

That simple reassurance made something inside Rocket settle, the tightness in his chest easing ever so slightly. He wasn't used to hearing those kinds of words—not from anyone, let alone David. But there was sincerity in them that made Rocket's heart feel a little lighter. A warmth spread through his chest, filling the space where the tension had been. It was a small, fragile feeling, but it was there, and Rocket held onto it, letting it grow.

"I don't like feeling weak," Rocket muttered, looking away as he struggled to come to terms with the overwhelming emotions that threatened to surface. His paws flexed in his lap, clenching and unclenching in a rhythmic motion as if he was desperately trying to find something, anything, to do with all the emotion that was suddenly running rampant inside him. The frustration and vulnerability he felt were foreign to him, and he couldn't help but feel like he was losing control. His eyes drifted towards the floor, unable to meet anyone's gaze, as he grappled with the unfamiliar sensation of being at the mercy of his emotions.

David leaned in closer, his voice low and soothing, a gentle calmness washing over Rocket. "Rocket, you're not weak," he emphasized, his words dripping with conviction. "You're one of the strongest people I know," he continued, his tone filled with sincerity. "You just... you're allowed to have moments where you're not okay," he said, his speech measured and gentle. "That doesn't take away from how tough you are," he reassured, his words a balm to Rocket's fragile emotional state. "You see, Rocket, it's okay to stumble, to falter, and to lose your footing sometimes," David explained, his voice a gentle guide. "It's how you respond, how you pick yourself up and keep moving forward, that truly matters."

Rocket hesitated, then let out a short, almost reluctant laugh. The sound was tinged with a hint of surprise, as if he hadn't expected to find humor in the situation. "You really know how to make a guy feel soft, don't you?" he said, his voice laced with a mix of amusement and curiosity. The way he spoke hinted at a deeper emotion, one that he might not have been willing to acknowledge outright. David smirked, his eyes glinting with affection. “I’ve been told I have that effect.”

Rocket rolled his eyes, the motion almost instinctual, but couldn’t suppress the small, amused smile that insisted on tugging at his lips. The smile was a betrayal, a subtle revelation of the amusement he was trying to keep hidden. "Yeah, well, I’m still not gonna admit it, so don’t get any ideas," he said, his voice laced with a defensive tone, a hint of playfulness dancing beneath the surface.

"I wouldn’t dream of it," David replied with a wink, the glint in his eye suggesting he was doing exactly that – dreaming of it, scheming, and probably already planning his next move. He settled back against the headboard, his relaxed posture a stark contrast to the undercurrents of tension and anticipation that filled the air.

For a few more moments, they just sat there, the air between them filled with unspoken understanding. The silence was palpable, yet oddly comforting, like a warm blanket wrapped around their souls. Rocket felt that warm, steady pulse of comfort he hadn’t known he’d been craving—something he hadn’t felt since… well, since Lylla. It was a deep sense of connection, one that transcended words and logic, a feeling that spoke directly to his heart. And though he still didn’t have all the words for it, there was something different about this moment, something that felt... right. The weight of his emotions, the turmoil that had been brewing inside him, seemed to lift ever so slightly, replaced by a sense of peace and belonging. It was as if he had finally found a piece of himself that he hadn’t realized was missing.

Finally, Rocket shifted, a mischievous glint returning to his eyes as he settled into a more relaxed position, his posture exuding a sense of casual comfort. "So... what else you got planned for the day, David?" he asked, his voice laced with a hint of amusement, as if daring David to come up with something exciting. "Are we gonna keep bonding like this, or are you just gonna let me do all the work while you sit around looking pretty?" he continued, his tone dripping with sarcasm, his words hanging in the air like a challenge, waiting to see how David would respond to his teasing.

"David snorted at the sudden change in Rocket’s tone, his expression a mix of amusement and annoyance. "Oh, you think you’re the only one who can make things happen, huh?" he said, raising an eyebrow.

"Damn straight," Rocket said, his grin spreading across his face like a mischievous crescent moon. "Now, what do you say we go get some food before Drax shows up again with more of his 'Warrior-Mate' nonsense? I'm starving, and I don't think I can handle another one of his lectures on the importance of finding one's true warrior-mate. My stomach's been growling for hours, and I need something to fuel my genius-level intellect."

As Rocket stood up, David couldn't help but chuckle at his friend's antics. He shook his head, smiling wryly as he recalled the countless times Rocket's unpredictable behavior had turned a mundane situation into a chaotic adventure. "You're something else, Rocket," he said, his voice laced with a mix of amusement and exasperation.

Rocket beamed with pride, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Hey, someone's got to keep things interesting around here," he replied, his chest puffed out in a comical display of self-importance. "Now come on, let's go get some food before Drax ruins everything!" He gestured urgently towards the dining area, his long strides forcing David to hurry to keep up with him. As they walked, the sound of Drax's booming laughter and the clattering of dishes grew louder, and David couldn't help but wonder what kind of chaos they would find when they arrived.

"... Star-Lord?" David murmured a little later. "... More like Splat-Lord! God, that was great!" He laughed. "Drax... didn't even BUDGE when Quill slammed into him!"

Rocket burst into laughter at David’s words, clutching his sides as he doubled over, nearly losing his balance. “Splat-Lord!” he echoed, still cackling. “Oh, flarkin’ hell, that was priceless! Quill’s face when he—” Rocket mimicked Quill’s wide-eyed expression and dramatic crash with an exaggerated flailing of his arms.

David wiped tears from his eyes, grinning ear to ear. “I think Drax was more surprised that Quill dared to even try it. It was like watching a bug run into a boulder.”

“Oh yeah, Quill was the bug, alright!” Rocket wheezed, his body shaking with the intensity of his laughter. “BAM! Right into the wall of muscle!”

“Yeah, I swear, Drax didn’t even feel it. He just stood there like ‘I am the wall of unmovable justice’,” David said with a theatrical tone, rolling his shoulders dramatically.

Rocket laughed so hard that he almost lost his balance again, grabbing the edge of the bed to steady himself. “Unmovable justice… Yeah, that’s one way to put it. More like ‘you’re gonna get flattened’ justice!”

David chuckled, his grin softening into a more affectionate smile as he watched Rocket’s outburst. He was so used to the tough exterior, the bravado, that seeing Rocket so carefree, so full of laughter, made something warm stir in his chest. There was something special about the moments when Rocket dropped all the armor and let himself just… be.

Eventually, Rocket managed to catch his breath, still grinning like a maniac. “Quill’s gonna need a few days to recover from that one,” he said, wiping his eyes.

“Yeah, he won’t let it go for a while,” David agreed. “But you know... he’s Peter Quill. He’ll find some way to twist it around into a joke, make it all about him.”

Rocket shook his head, still grinning. “If he does that, I’ll be the first to tell him he was the one who got flattened! He won’t be able to argue with Drax's muscle facts.”

David raised an eyebrow playfully. “You’re on the team that helped him get here, though. Don’t you think you’ll owe him something after all that?”

Rocket smirked, his eyes glinting mischievously. “Oh, I’ll give him something. But it won’t be sympathy. I’m thinking a nice, loud ‘Splat-Lord!’ the next time he gets knocked over. That oughta teach him a lesson.”

David laughed, ruffling Rocket’s fur affectionately. “Yeah, that’s definitely gonna stick.” He took a deep breath, suddenly looking thoughtful. “But seriously, Rocket… I’m glad you’re here. It’s nice, being able to laugh like this.”

Rocket paused, his expression softening for a moment. “Yeah… it’s nice. Haven’t done it much lately.” He looked at David, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips. “Thanks, Dave.”

David met his gaze, his eyes full of warmth. “You don’t have to thank me, Rocket. You’re family. We’ve got each other’s backs.”

Rocket’s grin widened, though there was a softness in it that he wasn’t used to showing. “Alright, alright. Family. But you better be ready, ‘cause I’m not going easy on you just ‘cause you’re all sappy.”

David chuckled, giving him an affectionate shove. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

As the laughter faded, the two of them sat in the comfortable silence, knowing they’d always have moments like this, even amidst all the chaos. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

David couldn't stop laughing again a little while later, "... One day, we'll accidentally run into Drax, and I'll be like, 'Rocket! I don't remember you building a wall here--oh, waitaminute that's just Drax!'

Rocket snorted at the thought, practically snickering into his pillow. "Yeah, and then Quill’s gonna be like, ‘What the hell is this, a new obstacle course?!’” He raised a paw, making a mock-scared face, “’Drax the kylosian wall, coming to block your way!’”

David wiped his eyes again, trying to stifle the laughter that still bubbled up. “I can already hear Quill whining, ‘How do you even get through him? Do you need a crowbar? A rocket launcher?’” He made an exaggerated gesture, pretending to try and pry open a wall of muscle with a crowbar, before collapsing into another fit of laughter.

“Oh man, don’t even get me started. Quill would try anything,” Rocket cackled. “I can see it now. He’d start overthinking everything, coming up with incredible plans that involve zero actual fighting and all sneaky sabotage tactics. You know he’d try something like, ‘Oh, I’ll distract Drax by throwing a sandwich at his face, and while he’s chewing, I’ll sneak past!’”

David doubled over laughing. “The sandwich tactic! He’d probably end up getting himself tackled for not realizing that Drax doesn’t even need a sandwich to chew him up!”

“Exactly!” Rocket said, his voice thick with amusement. “Quill would be too busy trying to figure out the perfect distraction to realize he’s already been destroyed by a simple glance from Drax.”

David’s eyes gleamed with mischief as he propped himself up on one arm, giving Rocket a sideways look. “I wonder how long it’ll take Quill to start actively avoiding Drax after this. I mean, he’s usually the ‘guy who thinks he’s invincible,’ but with Drax? He’s gonna be running for cover.”

“Oh, yeah, he’s gonna be running like a coward,” Rocket said, his voice dripping with mock seriousness. “The second he sees Drax, it’s gonna be, ‘Nope, nope, nope. Not today, blue wall of doom.’”

David leaned back, still grinning. “One day, when Drax catches him off guard and Quill has to walk around him like, ‘Oh, yeah, we’re just… casual buddies now, no biggie…’ I’ll be dying.”

Rocket couldn’t hold it in anymore and snickered uncontrollably, imagining Quill doing exactly that, trying to ‘casually’ walk past Drax while pretending like everything was fine.

Later, showered, groomed and dressed, David and Rocket took their places on the flight deck--or they tried to. One look at Quill, however, and the two stepped out again before they slumped to the corridor floor hands and paws covering mouth and muzzle as they tried valiantly to suppress their mirth! "... Splat-lord! ... sorry--!" David whispered even as he laughed!

Quill, completely oblivious to the chaos he was causing, turned around with a confident grin plastered on his face. "What? What's so funny?" he asked, his arms crossed over his chest as he looked between the two, not noticing the barely contained laughter in their eyes.

David wiped a tear from his eye, barely able to compose himself. "Oh man," he muttered, snickering. "You—you look like you got caught in an explosion at a clothing factory, Quill! What happened? Did you lose a bet?"

Rocket, struggling to keep his voice low, was clutching his stomach, his small body trembling with the effort to hold back the outburst. "Splat-Lord strikes again! What, did you raid a space thrift shop? This is the best thing that’s happened all morning!" He shot a glance at David, whose face was practically glowing red from holding back his own fit of giggles.

Quill's expression faltered slightly as he glanced down at his outfit. He was still wearing his usual jacket, but this time it was very oversized and untucked, and his shirt had a random patchwork of mismatched designs. His hair was as messy as ever, but today, there were wild beads and beads of glitter adorning it. And the final touch? A pair of neon pink sunglasses that practically swallowed his face.

"What the hell is wrong with my outfit?" Quill grumbled, a little self-conscious now.

David shook his head, still chuckling. "Quill, you literally look like the galaxy’s worst fashion experiment. That jacket? It's the color of... like... space throw-up."

Rocket burst out laughing, snorting so loud it echoed down the corridor. "Oh man, this is gold! Look at him, David! He looks like a cosmic disaster!”

Quill, trying to maintain some shred of dignity, flicked the sunglasses back up onto his nose. "Alright, alright," he said with a sigh, putting his hands up in mock defense. "I’m just ahead of the curve. You two don’t get it. This is art."

David wiped his eyes, still holding back his laughter. "Well, if this is art, you might want to find a new gallery."

Rocket's grin was wide, his tail swishing in amusement. "Y’know, Quill, you really oughta be more careful with this fashion shit. You might end up getting arrested for crimes against style."

Quill gave them both a scowl, but it was clear he wasn’t actually mad. He ran a hand through his messy hair, groaning. "Alright, whatever. You guys are just jealous. I’m trendy as hell. You’ll see."

David shot Rocket a glance before shaking his head. "Yeah, sure. Trendy. Let’s see what the rest of the galaxy has to say about it."

As Quill walked past them, clearly unfazed by their laughter, Rocket called after him with a final quip, "Just please don't go to any fashion shows, alright? You might cause an intergalactic crisis!"

And with that, the two of them finally managed to compose themselves—though the echoes of their laughter lingered in the corridor, adding one more thing to laugh about for the day.

* * *

"Guardians we need your--" The Nova Corps Officer blinked. "Star Lord... what the HELL are you wearing?!"

Quill blinked, momentarily caught off guard, before he straightened up with all the confidence he could muster. "Hey, it’s called style, alright? Not everyone can pull it off." He adjusted the oversized jacket and flicked his neon pink sunglasses back into place, hoping to salvage some dignity in the face of the Nova Corps officer’s disbelief.

The Nova Corps officer looked him up and down, brow furrowed. "Style? That’s—that’s not style, Quill. That’s a walking disaster."

David, who had been standing off to the side with Rocket, stifled a snicker. He nudged Rocket, who was doing his best to look completely serious, but failing spectacularly. Rocket’s tail was twitching with suppressed laughter.

"I mean, what is that even?" the Nova officer continued, now clearly in shock. "You look like a space barfed up a thrift store."

Rocket couldn’t help it. He burst out laughing, his voice loud and unrestrained. "Splat-Lord, what is that outfit?! Looks like you took a bath in a color blind rainbow!"

Quill shot Rocket an incredulous look, but Rocket was too busy howling with laughter to care.

"You did ask," Rocket choked out between fits of laughter.

Quill, clearly not willing to give in, huffed and crossed his arms, trying to look smug despite the giggles around him. "What? It’s trendy, I’m tellin' ya. You wouldn’t understand. It’s the next big thing in fashion, trust me." He then shot a dramatic glance at the officer. "Just wait, soon everyone will be copying me."

David, now fully losing his battle against the giggles, muttered, "Yeah, the entire galaxy is totally gonna copy this."

The Nova officer blinked again, shaking his head in disbelief. "I’m gonna need you to go back to your ship and change into something that doesn’t look like it’s about to spontaneously combust. We’ve got a mission, Quill."

"Yeah, yeah," Quill grumbled, but there was a glint of pride in his eyes. "One of these days, you’ll all be begging me for fashion tips."

David slapped Rocket on the back, his voice still tinged with amusement. "I think we're safe for now. No one’s gonna beg him for tips anytime soon."

"Yeah, except maybe to avoid a fashion emergency," Rocket added with a smirk, clearly not done teasing Quill yet.

The Nova officer shook his head and sighed. "Fine, whatever. Just—please don’t scare the civilians with whatever that is. I can’t even… just… never again."

As the officer turned away, Quill gave a dramatic sigh, trying to ignore the continuing snickers from his crew. He glanced at the two of them, his lips curling into a grin despite himself. "I’ll have you know, I’m a trendsetter, and history will be on my side. When I’m famous for this look, you’ll be begging to get in on the ground floor."

David raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, Quill, sure you will be."

Rocket just couldn't resist one last jab. "Maybe the rest of your outfits can join this one in the fashion graveyard."

As Quill sulked ahead, the trio continued their journey—though it was clear their mission would be punctuated by plenty more laughter along the way.

* * *

"... you absolute little furgoblin!" David chortled to Rocket. Rocket, knowing the 'insult' was just good humor, grinned. "... you switched all Quill's gear around, didn't you!?" The poor human could barely contain his laughter! "That's... that's why he's been such a... such a... fashion statement!" Both human and raccoon laughed until they could barely breathe!

Rocket’s grin widened mischievously, his eyes sparkling with pure glee. “You better believe it, Davy-boy! Had to keep him on his toes somehow, didn’t I?” He puffed out his chest proudly. “Switched out his boots for some ridiculous neon ones, tossed in that... thing he calls a vest—don’t even know what it is. Threw a couple of extra layers on top just for the sheer chaos of it!”

David collapsed back against the wall, clutching his stomach as he gasped for air between laughs. "You... you are evil, Rocket! Evil genius!" He wiped tears from his eyes, still shaking with laughter. "No wonder he couldn’t walk straight! The poor guy’s been tripping over his own clothes for the past hour!"

Rocket snickered, tail flicking with satisfaction. “Yeah, and did you see how he kept checking his reflection? He’s like, ‘I look good, right?’ Hah! More like, ‘I look like a walking, malfunctioning disco ball!’”

David snorted so hard he almost choked. “Oh, Quill's gonna hate us when he figures it out!” He wiped his eyes again. "That’s way too good, Rocket. You’ve gotta give me credit for this one—we have to make it a team effort. And the best part is? He’ll never know who did it!"

Rocket puffed out his chest again, smug as ever. “I’m the mastermind behind this masterpiece, my friend. I’ll take full credit. And when he figures it out? Well, I’ll just remind him that payback is a thing, and I’m never too far behind!”

As the two of them leaned against the wall, catching their breath from their laughter, David shot Rocket a sideways look, eyes still dancing with amusement. “You know, I never thought I’d see the day when Quill—of all people—became a walking joke, and it was your doing."

Rocket’s grin was wide, but there was an odd softness in his eyes as he looked up at David. “Hey, someone’s gotta keep him in check, right?”

David chuckled, placing a hand on Rocket’s shoulder. “Oh, I don’t think Quill’s ever been more checked than right now.”

“Yeah... yeah, but now he’ll think twice before wearing... whatever the hell that was again,” Rocket said with a wink. “This was a perfect mission. You know, it almost makes me wish we could mess with him like this every day.”

David sighed dramatically, shaking his head. “Oh, I can’t even imagine the chaos that would be. But... damn, that was hilarious.”

"That's what friends are for," Rocket said with a snort, wiping a tear from his eye. “Messing with Quill, making memories, and creating chaos wherever we go.”

And as they shared a final chuckle, Rocket couldn’t help but feel the warmth of their bond—the kind of connection that, despite all the mess and madness, made every moment worth it. Even if Quill would probably be ready to strangle them both the second he figured it out.

* * *

With the mission complete, David and Rocket moved among the Cargo crates they'd pilfered, extremely valuable stolen goods, much of which was to be returned to Nova Corps, despite Quill's grumbling. Moving among the crates, taking inventory, David happened upon a rather large crate with an odd set of numbers and letters stamped on it. "8-9-Q-1--what?!" David breathed. "No... no way!" Then, "ROCKET?! ROCKET, GET OVER HERE, RIGHT NOW! I... I need you to read something for me, bud! I need you to verify what's written on this Crate!" At the urgency in David's voice, the little raccoon dropped what he was doing and raced to David--and he paled under his fur. "... 8-9-Q-1-2..." Rocket sank to the floor, eyes welling with tears. "... Flarkin'... no... no-no-no! I... that's..." "Lylla's experiment number..." David breathed.

"... Dat's impossible!" Rocket squeaked. "Dey k-- I saw her die, I... I..."

Then, "QUILL! DRAX!" Rocket bellowed, as David shouted, "MAKE ROOM! MAKE ROOM! WE NEED OPENING TOOLS, MEDICAL EQUIPMENT DOWN HERE--RIGHT FREAKING NOW!"

The atmosphere in the cargo bay shifted in an instant, the air thick with the weight of Rocket’s panic and David’s urgency. The crate before them loomed like a shadow from the past, an unwelcome reminder of things Rocket had buried deep within himself, never intending to bring them to the surface again.

David knelt down beside Rocket, his hand hovering above the raccoon's trembling form, unsure whether to offer comfort or the space needed to process the sudden flood of memories that were no doubt crashing into Rocket's mind.

Rocket, still wide-eyed with disbelief, shook his head rapidly, as though trying to shake off the very thought of what the crate could mean. “No, no, no... it can't be. They can't—I—I saw her die, I saw the whole thing... she—she’s—” His voice broke, and his fists clenched, the sharp, familiar ache of grief twisting inside him. "She can't still be..."

David’s own heart lurched, the sheer devastation in Rocket’s voice breaking something inside him. He leaned forward, steadying Rocket. “Rocket, listen to me,” he said firmly but gently, his voice full of purpose, “I know how this feels, alright? But we have to know what’s inside that crate. It could be a mistake. You have to look. We have to make sure before—"

Rocket’s eyes met David’s, raw and pleading. “You don’t get it, man,” Rocket whispered hoarsely. “Lylla... was a part of me, and if—if she’s in there—if this is really her... I—I can’t lose her again, not like this. Not after everything. After everything I did to try to save her…” His words trailed off, choked by emotion.

David didn’t have the right words to take that pain away, but he could offer something—something that would make a difference in this moment. He reached for Rocket’s hand, his grip firm but kind. “We’re gonna find out together, Rocket. No matter what’s in there, you won’t be alone. Not now. Not ever.”

Rocket took a shaky breath and nodded, wiping at his eyes in frustration. “Yeah… yeah, I know. Just… just don’t let it be her. Please, David... please don’t let it be her.”

Before David could respond, Quill and Drax arrived, their heavy footsteps thudding through the cargo hold. Quill, still looking slightly disheveled from the earlier chaos, raised an eyebrow. “What the hell’s going on now?” he asked, looking between Rocket and David, his voice cautious.

“We need to open this crate,” David said quickly, eyes sharp. “Right now. Medical equipment, tools—everything. It’s urgent.”

“What’s inside it?” Quill asked, stepping closer but keeping his distance, sensing the tension in the air.

“Doesn’t matter what’s inside,” Rocket snapped, his voice hard with a hint of desperation. “We need to get in now!”

Drax’s towering form stepped forward without another word, pushing past the others to stand near the crate. “I will help,” he said solemnly, his voice deep and unwavering.

David nodded in silent agreement, giving Drax a grateful look. “Thanks, Drax. Let’s get this open, carefully. We’re not sure what we’re dealing with.”

As Drax went to work on the crate, using his immense strength to pry open the sealed panels, the rest of the Guardians stood in tense silence, their eyes fixed on Rocket and David. Time seemed to stretch out, each second ticking painfully slow.

Finally, with a deep groan of metal, the crate’s lid popped open, revealing a complex series of cryo-containers stacked neatly inside. The sight of them made Rocket freeze, his heart pounding in his chest.

David reached forward cautiously, pulling one of the containers out of the crate. The glass was frosted over, the contents inside obscured by a thick layer of ice. Slowly, carefully, David wiped away the frost, and the sight of what was inside took his breath away.

Inside the container, curled up in a sleeping position, was a figure that could only be Lylla. Her fur was as pristine as the last time Rocket had seen her, her eyes closed in peaceful slumber.

Rocket’s breath caught in his throat. He stared at her for a long, agonizing moment, his mind refusing to comprehend what he was seeing. His voice cracked when he spoke. “This... this can’t be real. How?”

David looked up at Rocket, his expression soft but determined. “We need to get her out of there, Rocket. She’s alive. She’s alive, buddy. We’re gonna bring her back.”

Tears welled up in Rocket’s eyes again, his voice a whisper, "But... how is this even possible? I saw her die. I saw her die!"

David placed a hand on Rocket’s shoulder again, the weight of the moment heavy between them. “We’ll find out. We’ll figure it out, Rocket. But right now, we need to focus. We need to get her to the med bay. We need to save her. We need to save her.”

Rocket nodded, trembling, but despite the pain twisting his insides, there was a spark of hope in his eyes. A hope he hadn’t felt in years.

“Alright,” Rocket murmured, more to himself than anyone else. “Alright. Let’s get her out of there.”

Together, they moved quickly, the weight of the past and the uncertain future hanging over them, but Rocket felt something new stirring inside him—a faint, fragile hope that this time, just maybe, things would be different.

* * *

Rocket’s breath was ragged, his fur prickling with anxiety as he stared at Lylla's cryo-chamber. It was as though time had bent back on itself, returning him to a moment he never wanted to revisit, a moment of loss that had broken him. His claws dug into the cold metal floor, a futile attempt to ground himself.

David’s steady hand on his shoulder was the only thing that kept him tethered to reality. His voice was soft but insistent, as though every word was an anchor. "Rocket, listen to me. You cannot go there. You’ve got to stay focused. Don’t let the worst-case scenario take over your head.”

Rocket trembled, but he forced his gaze up to meet David’s. He could see the sincerity in the human’s eyes, the deep care that had woven itself between them over time. His heart ached with a mix of frustration and desperation. “I don’t know if I can... David,” he choked, voice cracking. “What if... What if I lost her again, man? What if this is just... another cruel trick?”

David shook his head firmly. “No. Don’t think like that, Rocket. You can’t afford to. You’re stronger than that. You’ve been through hell and come back, time and again. We’re going to do this right. And whatever happens, we’re in this together.”

The human’s words didn’t make the fear go away, but they created a safe space for Rocket to breathe again, a small sense of calm in the storm of his emotions.

David pressed his forehead gently to Rocket’s, offering him a moment of quiet connection. “You can do this,” he whispered, his voice warm and steady. “I believe in you.”

Rocket swallowed hard, his throat tight. He wanted to argue, to push away the reality of this moment, but he couldn’t. Not with David standing there, a steady anchor in the swirling chaos of his thoughts.

David stepped back, a small but genuine smile curling at the corners of his lips. “You’ve got this, Rocket. If anyone can handle this delicate stuff, it’s you.”

Rocket wiped his face with the back of his paw, his resolve hardening. “Right. Yeah. Okay.” He took a deep breath, and then another. His heart was still racing, but it felt like he was beginning to gain control.

David didn’t leave his side. “I know it’s not easy. But we’ll do this right. We’ll monitor everything, and we’ll keep everything under control. Together.”

Rocket nodded, wiping his eyes once more. His voice trembled a little but he spoke with determination. “Right. We do it slow. We do it carefully.” He looked at the chamber, the weight of the task before him sinking in. But something inside him flickered—a tiny, stubborn spark of hope.

They moved toward the chamber together. David stood by, watching as Rocket carefully, methodically began the process. He tapped into his knowledge of the High Evolutionary’s technology, his mind focused on the intricate steps. He knew this. He knew the procedure. And he’d do it. He had to.

As Rocket worked, David stayed close, watching with concern but trusting his friend’s expertise. When the stasis chamber hissed softly, indicating it was primed, Rocket finally exhaled in a shaky breath. His fur was damp with sweat, but his hands were steady.

"It's time," Rocket muttered, his voice low. He reached forward, his claws grazing the control panel as he initiated the slow defrost sequence.

The chamber’s lid began to lift, and for a long moment, the two of them stood in silence, watching the process unfold.

Lylla’s form, still frozen in the amber-like fluid, was revealed slowly. The shimmer of the cryo-chamber evaporated, and Rocket could see her clearly for the first time in years. She looked as beautiful as he remembered—perfect, peaceful... alive.

Tears blurred Rocket’s vision again, but this time, they were tears of something else. He’d never allowed himself to believe that this could happen, that she could be alive again. And yet here she was, so close. He couldn’t lose her. Not again.

David gave Rocket a small, encouraging nod. “Nice and slow, Rocket. You’ve got this.”

With an almost reverent touch, Rocket began the delicate process of bringing Lylla back, monitoring her vitals and adjusting the temperature gradually, making sure her body could handle the transition. His heart pounded in his chest with every second, but he kept his focus, kept his hands steady.

And then... just as the final stages of the procedure began, Lylla’s eyelids fluttered.

“Rocket...” David whispered, awe in his voice.

Rocket froze, every muscle in his body tensing. Her eyes opened, slowly, and met his gaze with confusion—and recognition.

"Lylla..." Rocket breathed, his voice hoarse with emotion. “It’s really you…”

A soft, tremulous smile curled on her lips as she blinked, taking in the room and the two figures before her. Her voice was faint, but it carried the weight of the years lost. “Rocket? Is it really you? Am I... am I alive?”

Rocket couldn’t hold it in any longer. He dropped to his knees beside her, tears spilling freely from his eyes, his heart swelling in his chest.

“It’s you... It’s really you,” he choked out, his voice breaking.

David stood quietly beside him, giving Rocket the space he needed in this moment of profound relief. The world outside seemed to disappear as Rocket leaned in, brushing Lylla’s fur gently, making sure she was real, that she was truly here with him again.

“Yeah,” Rocket whispered, barely able to contain the overwhelming joy and relief. “You’re alive, Lylla. You’re alive.”

And in that moment, with the weight of years of grief finally lifting, Rocket allowed himself to hope again. For the first time in a long time, things seemed to be looking up.

#rocket raccoon #friendship #drax the destroyer #rocket raccoon fanfiction #hurt/comfort

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whitedragoncoranth · 4 months ago

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Me see hibata, me reblog!

Kiss Kiss Bang Bang Prompt # 20 Put Your Ray Gun to My Head

Petra held the laser pistol she stole from the room at the ready as she ducked down, and the door to the small bedroom opened. The hallway was empty; neither the gigantic tree man, the vicious green woman, nor the small, angry, and begoggled creature were in evidence. She let out a breath of relief before rising back up and making her way down the hall. Her heart pounded as she slowly eased her way towards what she hoped was the cockpit.

Everything on this damn ship is weird, Petra thought: the small child’s clothes in the locker, the too low workbench littered with odd tools, and the thick aroma of degreaser and fir trees permeating the sheets on the bed. She side-eyed the long row of storage racks lining the hall that narrowed the slender passageway even further. She frowned and shook her head. Stay focused, keep your cool, Petra thought angrily, but a niggling thought kept tickling at her brain.

The last thing she remembered was running away with her prize before agonizing bolts of electricity arced through her nerves. Normally, a jolt like that was painful, not even close to debilitating, but being caught unawares was another matter entirely. Letting out a howl of pain, the surprise shock took her brain back in time and space, back in a time where she was helpless and terrified.

In her mind’s eye, her former tormenter, Thalisk rose above her as he advanced with the controller. When he depressed the button, she fell to her knees as the electric misery danced a wretched tune down each nerve in her body. Petra glared up at the man, refusing to give him the pleasure of watching her suffer.

The Badoon leaned down, the faintest trace of a smile on his lips as he said, “Still so willful, eyes full of hate and determination. I think I can fix that.” He flicked a part of the controller and the voltage increased. Petra fell down, chin hitting the ground with a sickening thump. She jittered on the cold stone floor, and Thalisk chuckled wryly, “Now, writhe, little girl.”

As Petra fell in this present time, the unlocked memory of horror left her open and too frightened to use her powers. She was trapped and unable to move. She was strapped down and helpless at the mercy of a sadist and a sexual predator. Petra slammed face first onto the ground, mask taking the worst of the hit. A familiar voice rang out in gloating meanness, “Yeah, writhe, little man.” Before she lost consciousness one last thought passed through her mind, Rocket?

Castigating herself for thinking about him in a moment so awful, Petra continued down the hallway to where a set of stairs spilt out of a blind turn. She didn’t like that one bit. If she went up those stairs, she would be a sitting duck. She pressed herself against the wall and mulled through her options.

She could double back, see what was on the other side of the ship or just go back to the room and lay in wait, but none of those ideas really appealed to her. Waking up in only a too-big tee-shirt and boxer briefs didn’t really help her mood or make her feel anything but anger at her captors, and she was furious when she couldn’t find her pants or jacket either. Fucking pervs, Petra thought irritably as she decided to wait at the bottom of the stair well until someone came down.

The metal was cold on her back and legs as she laid in wait, her ass was half frozen and her bare feet sore before she heard the sound of clicking claws on metal. Someone or something was making their way down the steps. Moving as soundlessly as an owl in flight, Petra positioned herself gun at the ready in a double handed stance. She had no idea how tall her opponent would be, so she decided to aim for a more certain place. As the being stepped onto the first step within sight, she was growling out, “Move one inch and I’m gonna shoot your dick off!”

Instead of a set of any kind of genitals, Petra found herself with her gun inches from the long, sloped nose of a familiar and beloved face. Rocket stared down at the barrel of Petra’s gun, his eyes almost going cross eyed to take in the unexpected threat. Kithree-fucking-hell, you’re more amazing beautiful than I remembered, he thought in wonder as he took her in, looked into her eyes for the first time in thirteen years.

He was struck with a thousand sharp arrows, his throat filled with bile, as he took in the vision she made. The snapping green eyes were as gorgeous as new spring grass, her hair was a riot of curls, and even the murderous expression on her face filled him with hope and love. He watched in awe as her mouth dropped open in alarm and surprise, and she gasped a strangled sound that climbed half way to a sob. Her eyes filled with tears and her lower lip trembled.

The need to stop her tears had him making a terrible joke, anything to have that face light up for him again. “You’ll have to aim lower if you want to shoot my cock off, doll,” he said in the tenderest tones he’d ever uttered.

Without her helmet limiting her range of vision or his combat goggles hiding most of his face, identities couldn’t be hidden, beloved visages became clear. Her pistol didn’t waver where she kept it leveled at Rocket’s face, but Petra’s voice wobbled as she spoke, “Rock- Rocket? Is that really you?”

His throat was stuffed so full with emotions it made it hard for him to speak, the universe’s largest lump lodged in his gullet. He swallowed in a lungful of air then groaned out, “Course it’s me, baby girl. Who else would I be?”

Petra removed her finger from the trigger, hit the safety, and let the laser pistol drop from her hands and clattered onto the metal stairs. The weapon bounced noisily as it skittered from step to step, echoing horribly in the enclosed space. Her eyes were wide and shimmering with tears as Petra stood looking up mutely at the procyon. All of her body was frozen in place except for her trembling hands held up to him with the shaking awe of the disciples witnessing the return of the messiah.

Rocket’s ears rang from the violent cacophony of metal on metal. He flattened them and he winced before sighing in exasperation, “Jesus Christ, Pet, that was frickin’-” He was going to say ‘loud,’ but his mouth was suddenly occupied as Petra surged forward, grabbed his face, and slammed her lips to his.

She kissed him hard enough that when she bumped gracelessly against his front teeth, she cut her lip on them. Petra hissed at the momentary sting of her injury, but her lips never left his. She stole his exhaled breath as she used the blessing of his open mouth to deepen the kiss and lick in between his lips. The smooth glide of her tongue against his rougher one pulled a low growl of want from Rocket’s throat, and Petra answered with a moan that went right to his dick.

For the shortest moment, he could taste the holy copper penny flavor of her blood before the cavern of his mouth filled with honied sweetness and golden light. A forgotten but now remembered string of words singed his brain and bowed his back, "But if we walk in the light, as [s]he is in the light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood… cleanses us from all sin." * Rocket’s whole being burst into a wild conflagration of heated light and flame that did not burn.

Inside his body, his veins pulsed as the blood they carried transmuted into the incandescent splendor of the molten heart of a star. Petra was there in every cell of his body, her light filling all the cracks in his battered soul. As he was ensnared and wrapped in a tangle of glowing vines that cradled and held him with all the aching care and desire of a lover. He was finally home and known after being so long in the lonely void.

Rocket whined wounded noises into Petra’s unrelenting rain of kisses, dragged his tongue against her teeth, and bit her lower lip in a worshipful prayer of bone deep gratitude. She was dragon fire in his throat and lungs searing him with the intensity of her love for him and the unbearable pain of their separation. My darling love, he heard her think, Mon beau chaoui, mon coeur, stay with me, never leave me again.

He answered her words with the devotion of his mouth, promised to hold her soul between his teeth and never, never let go again. Pet, baby girl, I’ve always been with you. I told you before. We are bound. Our very particles are entangled together, and our souls are one, his heart answered back.

When he opened his eyes again, he found that she’d dragged him off of the stairs where she cradled him in her arms as she sat on the floor. She was a golden angel, illuminated with light and splendor. “I love you, Rocky. I love you. Rocket, I love you,” she chanted endlessly in the most adoring whisper he’d ever heard. Kiss after kiss was pressed reverently into the fur on the top of his head.

All of the aches and pains from earlier in the day were gone, evaporated in a searing, cleansing wash of brilliance. His hand no longer ached, his left hip was completely free of anguish, and inside of his body there was a racing and pulsing flutter of soothing butterfly wings, his mouth filled with the sweetest nectar. In the dim shadows of the stairwell, Rocket raised his hands and saw that his fur gleamed silver and bronze and his claws were obsidian daggers reflecting the stars themselves. His whole body was humming with song of Petra’s light.

She leaned down then and kissed him again, softly and sweetly as if he were made of fragile crystal or candy floss. Her lips moved all over his face, laying every bit of her feelings on every inch of him that she could reach. Petra’s magic mimicked the gentle way her lips moved against his. As she ghosted kisses against the corner of his mouth

“Please,” Rocket gasped as his hands covered Petra’s own where she cupped his face, “Petra, please,” he said. He didn’t know what he was asking for, only that his need was desperate and infinite, a deep pit that could only be filled by her.

She pulled back from his face. Her skin was like sheets of hammered gold and her eyes were the green of lit boron, flickering flames of verdant loveliness. Around her head, the golden curls were the harmless snakes of a tamed gorgon, beautiful and twisting with serpentine elegance. “You’re alive,” she breathed. “I found your broken body with all of your soul ripped out of it. I thought I would never hear your voice again,” she murmured. Her eyes held the crushing weight of all those years fate forced them apart.

“Whatever, whoever you saw, Pet; it wasn’t me. I’ve been travelling the universe searching for you every day.”

Petra looked into his perfect garnet gaze and pressed her forehead to his, “Oh, God,” she said as she rubbed his ears, “I’m so fucking glad, Rocket. I’m so happy.”

He pushed her away only so that his eyes could greedily take her in, “I never gave up. I never stopped. I never quit looking for you.” He was going to say more, something beautiful and loving, but Petra cut off any more words with another heated kiss.

Rocket was distantly aware of Petra blindly yanking his goggles off his head so that she could grip and pull the fur on the back of his head with one hand and crush his body against hers with the other, clutching at his ass with fierce possessiveness. His own hands sprang up. One paw tangled in her blond curls, and the other squeezed a breast through the soft cotton tee-shirt, claws pricking dangerously through the fabric. The sound Petra made when his thumb rubbed roughly against her nipple filled him with purpose. He dragged her down onto the unforgiving metal floor so he could lay atop her, straddling her waist and all but bucking his hips against her.

Between the two beings raged a fire of need so intense that there was no room for elegance or care in their kisses. Lips met and were the desperate crash of waves against rocky cliffs. As all rational thought fled his brain, Rocket felt the savage struggle of instinct and fought the clawing scrabbling urge to bite and mark what belonged to him, what was his. “Need you,” he said between bruising kisses, begging in a voice made of broken glass and spilled whiskey, “Need to be inside you.”

Petra nodded in agreement before pushing him up as she palmed the front of his orange jumpsuit. She hissed a wretched little cry of frustration when she couldn’t figure out how to get him out of his clothes fast enough.

“Let me,” he told her through clenched teeth as he released buckles and catches, nearly hurting himself as he tore his arms out of the sleeves and rolled the cloth down his waist. He’d never moved more quickly in his life as he wiggled down her body to be between her legs again. He couldn’t wait to shimmy the briefs off of her legs; instead, he ripped them down the middle making a frighting tearing sound that had Petra bowing her back and whimpering.

Rocket stared down at her perfect cunt and wanted to weep or fuck her until she couldn’t walk. “Baby girl, you’re already that wet?” he moaned as he reached down to trace the length of her slit, shuddered at the feeling of her desire slicking his fingers.

Petra whined and covered her eyes, “Why aren’t you already inside me?” Her whole body was shaking with the desperate and overwhelming need to have him fucking into her.

“Gimme a goddamn minute, you cheeky whore,” he grinned at her as he took his cock out and began to line himself up with her entrance. His body was a tight line of barely restrained lust.

He took a deep breath, and just as he was about to thrust his hips forward, he was jolted back by Petra’s flailing hands and deafened by her screech of, “Holy shit, the tree monster is back.”

“I am Groot!” Groot bellowed in outrage, and Rocket felt his ears burning as his friend laid into him about not fucking people without their consent.

Rolling over she was grabbing for the gun, and Rocket was fighting to keep her from reaching it, scrabbling to throw the weapon as far away as he could while Petra was yanking on his tail. “Trust me, I had her fucking consent, Groot,” he wheezed as he smacked Petra’s hand to make her let go of his tail.

“Rocket gimme the gun!” Petra snapped as she tried to grab him before he squirmed free of her grip.

Chucking the gun over Groot’s head, it sailed far down the hallway to where no one could possibly reach it and shoot anyone. “Every one, calm down. No one has to get hurt here,” he cried out to the two beings he loved more than any others.

“That tree tried to kill me,” Petra retorted hotly as she tried to sit up and cover herself with one hand.

“I AM Groot,” Groot answered sharply and pointed at Rocket’s exposed sex.

Rocket slapped his forehead in annoyance and snarked, “Stop accusing me of shit I didn’t do. She was practically begging for me to dick her down.”

“Rocket!” Petra exclaimed, her face a glowing ember of red coal.

Before he could explain further, there was an ominous thump against the ship and the com system blared, “This is the Nova Corps. You have fifteen seconds to reply to this query, or we will blow up this heap of junk you call a ship.”

* 1 John 1:7 "But if we walk in the light, as he is in the light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus his Son cleanses us from all sin."

TRACK # ?

Moonage Daydream

Song by David Bowie

I'm an alligator

I'm a mama-papa comin' for you

I'm the space invader

I'll be a rock 'n' rollin' bitch for you

Keep your mouth shut

You're squawking like a pink monkey bird

And I'm bustin' up my brains for the words

Keep your 'lectric eye on me, babe

Put your ray gun to my head

Press your space face close to mine, love

Freak out in a moonage daydream, oh yeah!

Don't fake it baby

Lay the real thing on me

The church of man, love

Is such a holy place to be

Make me baby

Make me know you really care

Make me jump into the air

Keep your 'lectric eye on me, babe

Put your ray gun to my head

Press your space face close to mine, love

Freak out in a moonage daydream, oh yeah!

Keep your 'lectric eye on me, babe

Put your ray gun to my head

Press your space face close to mine, love

Freak out in a moonage daydream, oooh!

Keep your 'lectric eye on me, babe

Put your ray gun to my head

Press your space face close to mine, love

Freak out in a moonage daydream, oh yeah!

Freak out

Far out

In out

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whitedragoncoranth · 4 months ago

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Rocket/Humie Fluff III

The uplifted raccoon braced himself. Another Quill-induced "stupid flarkin' idiot" comment was coming, and he was primed to unleash a torrent of creatively vicious insults. But then, something unexpected happened. David, the Terran, defended him.

"Mate, Raccoons are smarter than you!" David shot back at Quill, the rest of the team erupting in laughter at Quill's sputtering indignation. Rocket's jaw actually dropped. Did this… humie just defend me? He'd been so ready to tear into the idiot for another "trash panda" crack, but this… this was different. He glanced at Quill, whose face was a picture of outraged indignation, and a grudging smirk tugged at the corner of Rocket's mouth. Maybe this Terran wasn't so bad after all.

The defenses continued. Each time Quill lobbed a "raccoon" insult – stupid, smelly, whatever – David countered. Smarter. Faster. Stronger. Rocket blinked. Just what the hell were Raccoons?

Reluctantly, Rocket posed the question. David, without a word, produced a tablet. Videos flickered to life, and Rocket's eyes widened.

First, there was the chaos. Raccoons overturning garbage cans, pilfering bird feeders, brazenly stealing food from other animals. Rocket started to grin, then he howled with laughter. These little bastards were menaces! Just like him!

Then, the videos shifted. "Whoa..." Rocket muttered, eyes glued to the tablet. A raccoon, half the size of a dog, was going absolutely ballistic on a much larger animal, a snarling… what was that, a badger? The raccoon was a blur of claws and teeth, somehow dodging every swipe, and then – bam! – a perfectly timed bite to the throat, and the badger went down. Rocket's grin widened. "Tough little bastard survivors," he echoed, a newfound respect in his voice. He watched, mesmerized, as more clips played, raccoons taking on dogs, cats, even… humans? These weren't just scavengers; they were scrappers, fighters, survivors.

David looked at Rocket, a knowing glint in his eye. "Pretty impressive, huh?"

Rocket grunted, still processing everything he'd just seen. "Yeah," he admitted, finally. "Show me more."

* * *

David nodded, a hint of sadness in his eyes. "Yeah, they're tough, but… in the wild, they only live for about three or four years. It's a hard life." He tapped the tablet again, and the videos shifted to something completely different.

Rocket blinked. Gone were the scrappy street fighters. Now, he was looking at… fluff. Mountains of it. Two of the biggest, healthiest creatures he'd ever seen. "What the…?"

"These are Lilly and Salem," David explained, a small smile playing on his lips. "Pet raccoons."

Rocket stared, dumbfounded. He'd never imagined… domesticated raccoons. Then, Salem, a massive ball of fur, casually shoved a couch – a full-sized couch – just enough to squeeze behind it.

"Salem! You little shit! You little shit!" a woman’s voice shrieked from off-screen.

Rocket erupted. The sound was somewhere between a cackle and a wheeze, tears welling up in his eyes. He clutched his side, barely able to breathe. "Oh… oh flark…" He pointed at the tablet, gasping. "Again! Play it again!"

David chuckled and rewound the clip. Salem shoved the couch again, the woman yelled again, and Rocket lost it all over again. Then, the video cut to Salem, now behind the couch, happily chewing on the corner he’d just exposed.

"With care from a human," David said, his voice now tinged with amusement, "Raccoons can live for up to twenty years."

Rocket stared at the screen, his laughter subsiding into awed silence. Twenty years? He looked back at the videos of the wild raccoons, their lives so short and brutal. Then, he looked back at Lilly and Salem, living the high life, getting yelled at for destroying furniture. A slow grin spread across his face. "Twenty years," he repeated, a new appreciation in his voice. "Those little bastards…"

* * *

David continued the raccoon education, showing Rocket a video of another colossal specimen named Rusty. Rusty, even larger than Lilly or Salem, was rolling around on the ground, seemingly engaged in a ferocious wrestling match… with a human hand.

Rocket watched with narrowed eyes, a flicker of suspicion in his gaze. He glanced at the massive cage, the enclosure Rusty was kept in. “That cage…” he began, his voice low.

David chuckled. “Oh, no, the cage isn’t to keep Rusty safe from them,” he corrected. “It’s to keep them safe from him!”

Rocket’s eyes widened. “What?”

David shrugged. “Rusty’s… enthusiastic. Let’s just say he doesn’t always understand the concept of ‘gentle play.’”

Just then, the video showed Rusty, fast asleep in his owner’s arms. The man gently woke him, and Rusty, still half-asleep, began to chatter at him, a series of grunts, squeaks, and chirps. The man chuckled at whatever Rusty was saying, then carefully carried the massive raccoon outside.

Rocket watched, confused, as the man placed Rusty at the base of a large tree in the backyard. Rusty, now fully awake, immediately began to climb, scrambling up the trunk with surprising agility for his size.

Rocket burst out laughing again, nearly spitting out his drink. “He just… climbs trees?”

“Yeah,” David replied, grinning. “Raccoons are natural climbers. Rusty needs his exercise.”

Rocket shook his head, still chuckling. “So, the cage is to protect the humans from the giant, cuddly, tree-climbing monster?”

David nodded. “Pretty much.”

Rocket leaned back, a thoughtful expression on his face. These Earth raccoons were full of surprises. From savage street fighters to pampered pets to tree-climbing behemoths… He was starting to see why David was so fascinated by them.

* * *

The raccoon education took a heartbreaking turn. David showed Rocket the grim reality of raccoon rabies, the disease that could twist these creatures into either listless, shuffling shadows or rage-filled, violent versions of themselves, driven mad by the agonizing pressure of a swelling brain.

Then, the videos shifted to something even more poignant. A wildlife rehabber, her face etched with weariness, was caring for a baby raccoon. David explained the tragic story: the mother had been trapped and relocated, leaving the kit orphaned. A week alone, exposed to the harsh elements… On the screen, Rocket saw the tiny raccoon, shivering and making those small, desperate “lip smackies,” its cries a heartbreaking plea for its mother. The rehabber held the kit gently, her expression filled with compassion, but there was nothing she could do. The cries grew softer, and softer, until…

David’s voice was gentle. “It’s very difficult to get them to take the bottle, to feed. Some ‘get it,’ others never do. Rehabbers do all they can, but… they’re not Mama.” He paused, a flicker of sadness in his eyes, but then his expression brightened. “But, the ones that do make it…”

The video abruptly cut to a different scene. The same rehabber, now clad in a nightgown, stood in her clinic. And she was covered in baby raccoons. They swarmed over her shoulders, clinging to her arms, their healthy, demanding cries echoing through the room. “MOM! MOM! MOM! FEED ME! FEED ME! FEED ME!” they seemed to shout in unison. Rocket’s laughter erupted, a mixture of relief and pure, unadulterated joy. The abrupt shift from heartbreaking loss to heartwarming chaos was almost too much to take.

The raccoon education, however, wasn’t the only thing on Rocket’s mind. He also thought about David, and the times he’d simply… stepped up. Like the time Quill, in his infinite wisdom, had distracted him while he was working with live wires. The resulting electrocution had sent a jolt through Rocket’s system, and while Quill had found it hilarious, David hadn’t. Not one bit. He’d actually belted Quill, a surprising display of protectiveness.

Then, there was the whirlwind of David carrying him – yes, carrying him – to the medical bay. No fancy alien technology, just a simple, old-fashioned stethoscope. David had listened to his heart, his relief palpable when he’d found nothing seriously wrong. Even as Rocket grumbled and insisted he was fine, David had gently checked him over, his touch surprisingly gentle. “Just rest,” he’d said, his voice firm but kind. It was a level of care Rocket wasn’t accustomed to, and it had been… strangely touching. It made him wonder about this new humie, and the unexpected depths he seemed to possess.

* * *

The electrocution incident hadn't ended with the medical bay check-up. Rocket remembered the lingering tension, the way David's jaw was tight and his eyes flashed with anger. He'd fully expected David to just let it go, to chalk it up to Quill's usual brand of idiocy. But David hadn't.

Instead, he'd cornered Quill, and what followed was a verbal dressing-down of epic proportions. Rocket, still slightly dazed from the electrical shock, had listened in with a mixture of surprise and a growing sense of satisfaction. David, usually so easygoing, had unleashed a torrent of words, his voice low and dangerous.

He’d explained, in excruciating detail, the potential consequences of Quill’s “prank.” He talked about arrhythmia, an irregular heartbeat, and how it could lead to all sorts of complications – heart failure, stroke, even death. Rocket, even with his limited understanding of human physiology, grasped the seriousness of it. He’d never considered the long-term effects, too focused on the immediate jolt of electricity.

David’s words painted a vivid picture of what could have happened. He described the potential for long-term health problems, the need for constant monitoring, the possibility of debilitating treatments. He didn’t yell, he didn’t shout. He spoke calmly, methodically, and that made it all the more terrifying. He laid out the facts, the potential dangers, the sheer stupidity of Quill’s actions, and the message was clear: this wasn’t funny. This wasn’t a joke. This was serious, and Quill had been incredibly irresponsible.

Quill, for once, was speechless. He shifted uncomfortably under David’s intense gaze, his usual bravado nowhere to be seen. He mumbled apologies, his face flushed with shame.

Rocket, watching the scene unfold, felt a strange sense of… gratitude. David, this unassuming Terran, had stood up for him, not just with a physical reaction, but with words, with knowledge, with a fierce protectiveness that Rocket hadn’t expected. It was a strange feeling, being defended, being cared for. He wasn't used to it. But, he had to admit, it wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

* * *

Rocket wrestled with a recalcitrant piece of tech, muttering curses under his breath. He needed a specific wrench, but it was just out of reach, buried beneath a pile of spare parts. He grunted, stretching, but couldn't quite grasp it. Flarkin' thing.

The next day, he returned to his workbench to find a small, adjustable platform sitting beside it. It wasn't fancy, just a simple piece of metal, but it was perfectly sized to give him the extra height he needed. He picked up the wrench, a grudging respect forming in his mind. He hadn't mentioned needing anything. The humie had just… noticed.

Later, in the mess hall, the replicator was on the fritz again, churning out bland, nutrient paste. Rocket grimaced. He usually grabbed a fuel bar, but his stash was running low. As he resigned himself to the paste, David approached, holding an extra ration pack.

"Not that hungry," David mumbled, offering it to Rocket. "Want this?"

Rocket eyed the pack. It was his favorite – dried jerky and nuts. He took it with a curt nod. "Thanks." Again, no fanfare, no big deal. Just a quiet act of consideration.

In the commons, Rocket sat tinkering with a small drone, trying to diagnose a glitch in its programming. He muttered to himself, running through possible solutions. David was nearby, ostensibly reading a datapad, but Rocket could sense his presence. It wasn't intrusive, just… there.

"Damn thing's got a mind of its own," Rocket grumbled.

"Yeah, those drones can be tricky," David replied, not looking up from his datapad. Just a simple acknowledgment.

Rocket fiddled with a tiny circuit board, tapping his foot impatiently. He glanced at David, who was now tapping his own foot, a mirror image of Rocket's fidget. A strange sense of… something… flickered within him. He couldn't quite place it, but it wasn't unpleasant.

He explained the problem with the drone, and David listened quietly, occasionally offering a small, insightful question. He didn't try to fix it, didn't offer unsolicited advice. He just listened. And that, Rocket realized, was something Quill never did. Quill just talked. David listened.

These little things, these quiet acts of consideration, were starting to add up. Rocket still wasn't sure what to make of this Terran, but he was beginning to suspect that maybe, just maybe, this humie wasn’t so bad after all.

* * *

Later that evening, after a particularly frustrating encounter with Quill, Rocket was brooding in the commons, fiddling with a piece of salvaged tech. David, noticing his mood, wandered over, not intruding, just casually leaning against a nearby wall.

"Rough day?" he asked, his voice low and sympathetic.

Rocket grunted in response, not bothering to look up.

David remained silent for a moment, letting Rocket stew in his frustration. Then, he said, almost as an afterthought, "You know… if you ever need a quiet place to work, or just… get away from Quill's… unique brand of humor, my quarters are usually pretty empty. Door's always open." He paused, then added quickly, "No pressure, obviously. Just thought I'd mention it."

He left it at that, not pushing for a response, just letting the offer hang in the air. He didn't want to make it a big deal, just a simple statement of support, a quiet acknowledgement that he understood Rocket's need for space and offered a solution without any strings attached. He then turned and walked away, giving Rocket time to process the offer without feeling put on the spot.

* * *

Weeks later, the memory of David’s casual offer had settled into the back of Rocket’s mind. Quill’s antics had reached a new level of irritating, and the commons were becoming less of a sanctuary and more of a source of stress. One afternoon, driven by a desperate need for peace and quiet, Rocket found himself drifting towards David’s quarters. He hesitated for a moment, then, with a shrug, nudged the bulkhead door slightly ajar and slipped inside.

The room was… surprisingly tidy. Not sterile, but definitely not the chaotic mess Rocket expected from a human. He spotted David’s bed, neatly made, and with a sigh of relief, collapsed onto it. The soft mattress was a welcome change from the hard surfaces he usually preferred. Before he knew it, he was asleep.

David, returning from a mission debrief, noticed his door was slightly ajar. He cautiously peeked inside, and his heart warmed at the sight of Rocket, curled up on his bed, fast asleep. He moved quietly, careful not to make a sound. He noticed a few of Rocket’s tools scattered on a nearby table. Without disturbing the sleeping raccoon, he carefully gathered them up and put them away. He also noticed a few stray wires and bits of tech on the floor and tidied them up as well, making sure not to touch anything that looked like it was in progress. Then, with one last glance at the peacefully slumbering Rocket, David quietly left the room, closing the door gently behind him.

A few days later, Rocket noticed something new in David’s quarters. A small cot, perfectly sized for a raccoon, had appeared discreetly in a corner, tucked away but readily available. It wasn't presented as some grand gesture, just… there. "Just in case," David had said later, with a casual shrug, when Rocket raised an eyebrow. The unspoken message was clear: the space was Rocket’s, whenever he needed it, no questions asked. It was a subtle invitation, a quiet offering of trust and understanding. And Rocket, for the first time, felt a flicker of something he hadn't expected – a sense of belonging.

* * *

Rocket thrashed on the cot, his small body twisting and turning. He whimpered, a low, guttural sound that betrayed the turmoil of his dream. His breathing was ragged, his brow beaded with sweat. He muttered incoherently, words lost in the chaos of his nightmare.

David, working at his desk, noticed the commotion. He approached the cot cautiously, his expression etched with concern. "Rocket?" he said softly, his voice gentle. "Hey, Rocket, wake up. It's just a dream."

Rocket didn't respond. His thrashing intensified, his whimpers turning into small, choked cries. David gently placed a hand on Rocket's shoulder, a light touch meant to rouse him without startling him. "Rocket, come on. Wake up."

Rocket's eyes snapped open, wide and filled with panic. He flinched, instinctively recoiling from David's touch. He scrambled back against the wall, his breathing shallow and rapid. He looked around the room, disoriented, his gaze darting from object to object as if trying to make sense of his surroundings.

David kept his movements slow and deliberate, showing Rocket that he wasn't a threat. He knelt down, keeping a respectful distance. "It's okay," he said calmly, his voice soothing. "You're safe. You were just having a nightmare."

Rocket stared at him, his eyes still clouded with fear. He didn't speak, just continued to breathe heavily, his small chest rising and falling rapidly.

David remained silent, giving Rocket time to process what had happened. He didn't press for details, didn't pry. He simply waited, offering a quiet, reassuring presence.

After a few moments, Rocket's breathing began to even out. He blinked, his gaze finally focusing on David. He still looked shaken, but the initial panic had subsided.

David offered him a glass of water. "Here," he said. "Drink this."

Rocket took the glass, his hand trembling slightly. He took a small sip, then another. He looked at David, his eyes filled with a mixture of confusion and lingering fear.

David didn't push him to talk. He just sat quietly beside him, offering a comforting presence. He understood that sometimes, just being there was enough. He knew that Rocket wasn't used to showing vulnerability, and he respected that.

After a while, Rocket spoke, his voice barely a whisper. "It was… bad," he said, his gaze fixed on the empty glass in his hands.

David nodded. "Nightmares can be like that," he said softly. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Rocket hesitated for a moment, then shook his head. "No," he mumbled. "I… I'm okay."

"Okay," David replied. "Just remember, it was just a dream. You're safe here. And… if you ever do want to talk – when you feel you're ready – you know where to find me. And remember," he emphasized, meeting Rocket's gaze, "I'm not Quill. I won't laugh. I won't judge."

Rocket was quiet for a moment, then, almost hesitantly, he said, "Her name was Lylla." It was a small admission, a tiny crack in his armor.

David simply nodded, his expression gentle. He didn't press for more.

Rocket continued, his voice rough. "She… she was important to me." He looked away, his gaze distant. "She's… gone."

Again, David just nodded. He listened. He didn't offer platitudes or try to fill the silence. He let Rocket control the pace of the conversation.

After another pause, Rocket added, almost to himself, "They… they ki--… they took her."

David nodded.

Rocket's shoulders began to shake. He covered his eyes with his paws, a single tear escaping.

David, seeing Rocket's distress, gently touched his shoulder, the lightest, gentlest touch, and simply sat with him. He didn't offer empty words of comfort, he didn't try to stop the tears. He just stayed present, a silent pillar of support.

* * *

The shared grief over Lylla became a quiet undercurrent in their relationship. David never pushed, never pried, but he made it clear he was there for Rocket, a steady presence in his life. Small gestures continued, subtle but meaningful. David would leave small, intricate tools near Rocket's workbench, tools perfectly suited for the kind of repairs he was working on. He’d share his rations of Earth-made snacks, knowing Rocket had a weakness for the salty and sweet. And he always listened, truly listened, whenever Rocket chose to speak, offering no judgment, only quiet understanding.

One evening, Rocket found himself in David’s quarters again, tinkering with a particularly complex piece of tech. He was quiet, lost in thought, a melancholy air about him. David, sensing his mood, sat nearby, not intruding, just offering his presence.

After a long silence, Rocket said, almost to himself, “She used to… sing. Lylla. She had a… a soft voice.”

David nodded, remembering the few lines of the poem he'd shared before. "I know a poem," he said softly. "It reminds me… of loss. And love."

Rocket glanced at him, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes.

David began to recite, his voice low and gentle, "If tomorrow starts without me / and I'm not there to see…"

He continued, his voice filled with emotion, each word resonating with the pain and love Rocket carried within him. As David recited, something strange began to happen. The sound of David’s voice seemed to… shift. It wasn't just David anymore. There was a familiar warmth, a gentle cadence that tugged at Rocket’s heartstrings.

“…If the sun should rise and find your eyes / all filled with tears for me;” David continued, and now, the voice was undeniably Lylla’s. It was as if she was whispering the words directly into Rocket’s ear, a soft, comforting presence in the room.

Rocket’s breath hitched. He knew it wasn’t really Lylla, but the illusion was so powerful, so real. Tears welled up in his eyes, but this time, they weren’t tears of pure sorrow. There was a bittersweetness to them, a mixture of grief and love, a poignant reminder of the precious moments he’d shared with Lylla.

“…I wish so much you wouldn't cry the way you did today, / while thinking of the many things we didn't get to say…” David’s voice, now a blend of his own and the echo of Lylla’s, continued, and Rocket’s heart ached with a familiar longing.

By the time David finished the poem, Rocket was crying openly, his body shaking with the force of his emotions. But amidst the tears, a small smile played on his lips. It was a smile of remembrance, of love, of gratitude.

David touched Rocket’s shoulder, the lightest, gentlest touch. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. He simply sat with Rocket, sharing the silence, sharing the grief, sharing the love. He understood that sometimes, the most powerful comfort comes not from words, but from simply being present, a quiet witness to another’s pain. And in that shared silence, a deeper bond formed between them, forged in the crucible of loss and remembrance.

* * *

The nightmare was worse than any he’d had before. It clawed at him, relentless, dragging him back to the darkest moments of his past. He woke with a gasp, his heart pounding, his body trembling. The darkness of David’s quarters offered no comfort, only a stark reminder of the horrors that lurked in his mind. He couldn’t shake the images, the fear, the lingering chill of the dream.

He sat up, his gaze drawn to the closed door. He hesitated for a moment, then, driven by an overwhelming need for… something… he slipped off the cot. He moved quietly, almost instinctively, towards David’s bed.

The room was dimly lit, a soft glow emanating from a nearby lamp. David was asleep, his breathing even and steady. Rocket paused, watching him for a moment. Then, with a small, almost imperceptible sigh, he lifted the duvet and slid into the bed.

He settled in beside David, leaving a noticeable space between them. He curled up on his side, his back to the human, his eyes fixed on the wall. He didn’t touch David, didn’t even turn towards him. He simply… was there.

David didn’t stir. He remained asleep, his breathing unchanged. He was aware of Rocket's presence, though. He could feel the small, tense body beside him, the lingering tremors of the nightmare. He didn’t reach out, didn’t speak. He simply remained still, offering a silent, comforting presence. He understood. He knew that Rocket needed this, this quiet proximity, this unspoken reassurance. He knew that words were unnecessary, that actions spoke louder than any comforting phrase.

Rocket closed his eyes, his breathing slowly returning to normal. He was still shaken, still haunted by the nightmare, but the presence beside him, the quiet warmth of David’s body, offered a small measure of solace. He wasn't alone.

They remained like that for the rest of the night, two figures sharing the same space, separated by a small distance, yet connected by an unspoken bond of trust and understanding. The silence between them wasn't empty, it was filled with a quiet comfort, a shared vulnerability that transcended words. It was a silent acknowledgment of their connection, a quiet promise of support, a testament to the growing trust between them.

* * *

The nightmares had become less frequent, their sharp edges softened by the quiet comfort of David’s presence. A fragile trust had blossomed between them, a silent understanding that transcended words. One afternoon, Rocket was working on a particularly intricate piece of tech in David’s quarters, his brow furrowed in concentration. David sat nearby, quietly reading a datapad.

“Mantis was always trying to pet me,” Rocket muttered, more to himself than David. “Drove me nuts.”

David looked up, a thoughtful expression on his face. “She meant well,” he said gently. “She… expresses affection physically. It’s how she connects with people.”

Rocket snorted. “Yeah, well, I’m not a… a pet.” The word felt awkward in his mouth.

“I know,” David replied. “She understands that now.” He paused, then added casually, “Is it alright if I…?” He gestured lightly towards Rocket’s arm.

Rocket hesitated for a moment, his eyes flickering towards David’s hand. He considered it. This wasn't Mantis, this was David. It was different. He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

David gently brushed a stray piece of fur off Rocket’s shoulder, a light, almost feather-like touch. “You had a bit of fuzz there,” he murmured.

Rocket stiffened slightly at the initial contact, but he didn’t pull away. He focused on his work, trying to ignore the sensation of David’s hand.

A few days later, David was showing Rocket a video on his datapad, something to do with Terran engineering. As Rocket leaned closer to see the screen, David’s arm brushed against his. Again, a light, almost accidental touch. This time, Rocket didn't flinch. He simply continued watching the video, his focus shifting between the screen and the subtle warmth of David’s arm against his.

The touches became more frequent, more intentional, but always gentle, always respectful. A brief touch on the arm while passing something, a light brush against his leg while sitting side-by-side. Each time, David would gauge Rocket’s reaction, ready to pull back at the slightest sign of discomfort. But Rocket never pulled away. He seemed… almost accustomed to it.

One evening, they were sitting in comfortable silence, David reading, Rocket tinkering with a small device. David looked up, a gentle smile on his face. “You know,” he said softly, “Mantis wasn’t the only one.” He paused, then, with a hint of nervousness, reached out and lightly stroked Rocket’s fur along his back. It was a brief touch, a tentative gesture.

Rocket froze. His breath hitched. He looked at David, his eyes wide and unreadable. He didn't pull away.

David held his breath, waiting for a reaction.

After a long moment, Rocket’s expression softened. He looked down at his paws, then back at David. He gave a small, almost shy shrug. “It’s… kinda nice,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible.

David’s smile widened. He didn’t say anything. He simply continued reading, the quiet presence beside him a testament to the growing trust and affection between them. He knew this was a significant step, a bridge crossed. He knew that Rocket still had walls, but he also knew that, little by little, they were starting to crumble.

* * *

The change in Rocket had been subtle, but undeniable. He was… calmer. Less volatile. He still had his moments, his sharp wit and cynical outlook, but there was a noticeable softening around the edges. The team had observed the quiet connection growing between him and David, the small acts of kindness, the unspoken understanding. They’d seen how it was affecting Rocket, how it was… good for him. So, they’d made a silent pact to protect it, to shield it from Quill’s insensitive blundering. They’d subtly steered Quill away from David’s quarters, invented excuses for their absences, anything to keep him out of the loop.

But Quill, like a persistent, annoying gnat, eventually sniffed out something was happening. He cornered David and Rocket in the mess hall, a smug grin plastered on his face. “So, what’s goin’ on between you and Rocket, huh?” he asked, his tone laced with his usual brand of obnoxious curiosity.

Rocket’s ears twitched. He glanced at David, a flicker of doubt crossing his features. Would he tell? He braced himself for the inevitable teasing, the crude jokes, the invasion of his privacy.

David looked at Quill, his expression hardening. He opened his mouth, and for a moment, Rocket thought he was going to explain, to divulge the carefully cultivated trust between them. But then, David snapped, “Nunya!”

Quill blinked, his grin faltering. “‘Nunya?’ What’s that supposed to mean?!”

David’s expression turned fierce. “Nunya damn business!” he snarled.

The effect was instantaneous. Rocket’s jaw dropped. He stared at David, his eyes wide with surprise. Then, a slow grin spread across his face. He started to chuckle, then a giggle escaped, then a full-blown cackle. The sound was infectious. Groot, who had been quietly observing the exchange, let out a series of happy barks. Gamora, despite her stoic demeanor, couldn’t suppress a small smile. Drax, oblivious to the nuances of the conversation, boomed, “Nunya! It is a word of great power!”

Rocket, tears streaming down his face, was in hysterics. He clutched his side, barely able to breathe. He hadn’t expected this. He hadn’t expected David to defend him, to shut down Quill so decisively. He hadn’t expected the wave of warmth that filled his chest, the feeling of… belonging.

Quill, completely bewildered by the reaction, sputtered, “What?! What’s so funny?!”

“Nunya!” Rocket managed to choke out between laughs, wiping tears from his eyes. The word, so simple, so silly, suddenly became a symbol of their shared secret, a shield against Quill’s intrusion. It was a moment of pure, unadulterated joy, a testament to the unexpected bond that had formed between the uplifted raccoon and the Terran. And in that moment, Rocket knew that he had found something he hadn’t thought possible: a friend, a confidant, someone who truly had his back.

* * *

Quill, his face flushed with frustration, cornered David in the mess hall. "Look," he began, his voice tight, "as Captain, I want – no, I need – to know what's going on on my damn ship!"

Hidden behind a stack of crates nearby, Rocket froze. He was tinkering with a small device, his usual escape from the chaos of the ship, but Quill's raised voice snagged his attention. He didn't mean to eavesdrop, but he couldn't help but listen.

David met Quill's gaze steadily, his expression calm but firm. "I understand that, Quill, I do," he replied, his voice even. "But as I said previously: It's not any of your business."

Quill sputtered, "But—!"

David cut him off. "Look," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "What Rocket and I have isn't affecting ship operations. It isn't affecting crew morale – well, maybe a little," he conceded with a slight raise of his eyebrow, "but it's certainly not affecting Rocket's duties as ship's engineer. He's still the best damn mechanic in the galaxy, and he's keeping this bucket flying."

Rocket’s ears twitched. He leaned slightly closer, his eyes fixed on the two men, his heart starting to pound in his chest. He hadn't expected this. He'd assumed David would deflect, downplay their connection, anything to avoid Quill's scrutiny.

"So, no," David continued, his voice now laced with a hint of steel. "You don't need to know what's going on between Rocket and me. It's none of your business."

Quill's jaw tightened. He could feel the eyes of other crew members on him, and he hated the feeling of being shut down, of being out of control. He wanted to push, to assert his authority, but David's calm demeanor and logical arguments left him with little room to maneuver.

"But—" he tried again, but David simply raised a hand, silencing him.

"And," David added, his voice dropping slightly, "if you try to pry, if you try to go behind my back to find out what's going on, you'll be crossing a line. A line you really don't want to cross." There was a quiet intensity in his voice that made Quill pause. He wasn't used to David being so… assertive.

Rocket’s breath hitched. He was stunned. David wasn’t just brushing him off, he was defending him. He was drawing a line in the sand, telling Quill, the captain, to back off. A warmth spread through Rocket’s chest, a feeling he hadn’t experienced in a long time.

Quill glared at David for a moment, his frustration simmering just below the surface. He wanted to argue, to demand answers, but he knew, deep down, that David was right. Whatever was happening between him and Rocket was personal, and it wasn't impacting his command. He also sensed a new resolve in David, a quiet strength that he hadn't seen before.

With a frustrated huff, Quill turned and walked away, seething. He knew he’d been outmaneuvered, and it stung. He didn’t like being kept in the dark, especially when it came to his own ship, but he also knew that David was right. For now, at least, he'd have to let it go. But that didn't mean he was happy about it.

Rocket remained hidden behind the crates, his expression softening. He'd heard everything. He'd heard David's quiet defiance, his unwavering defense of their privacy. He leaned back against the crates, a small, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. He knew now. He knew that David wasn't just a quiet companion, he was a friend. A true friend.

* * *

Quill, unable to resist the itch of curiosity and a sense of wounded pride, cornered Rocket in the engine room. “Look, Rocket,” he began, adopting a falsely concerned tone, “I’m just worried about you. You’ve been acting… different lately. What’s going on with you and David?”

Rocket’s hackles rose. He’d known this was coming. “Nunya!” he snarled, the word laced with defiance.

Quill’s forced patience snapped. “Nunya?! That’s all I get? Come on, Rocket, I’m your captain! I deserve to know what’s happening on my ship!”

Rocket bristled, his small frame radiating anger. “It’s none of your damn business, Quill! Leave it alone!”

The argument escalated quickly, voices rising, insults exchanged. Quill, frustrated and feeling undermined, resorted to a low blow. “Look, I’m the captain here,” he said, his voice laced with menace. “And if I say David has to go, he goes. I can drop him off on the nearest planet. See how you like that!”

That was it. The threat against David, the casual disregard for their bond, ignited a firestorm within Rocket. He couldn’t lose David, not after everything. He couldn’t let Quill take him away. With a furious cry, he launched himself at Quill, claws extended, ready to attack--

--and suddenly, David was there. He appeared as if from nowhere, grabbing Rocket around the waist mid-leap, pulling him back from Quill. He held Rocket tightly, securely, preventing him from reaching Quill.

As David pulled Rocket back, his arms wrapping tightly around the smaller form to shield him, Rocket’s instinct took over. It wasn’t deliberate—this wasn’t an attack on David. It wasn’t even conscious. It was a wild reflex, a desperate strike at whatever was closest, the nearest source of his pain, his panic.

Rocket twisted in David’s arms, his sharp claws scraping across the skin of David’s forearm before he could fully reel back. The movement was fast—feral, like a trapped animal lashing out in terror. His teeth snapped shut, but only air met them. His focus was on Quill—the threat, the danger that still lingered—but David was there, right in the line of fire.

David grunted, the claws cutting deeper than he’d expected. It was an instinctive, knee-jerk defense—it wasn’t personal. Rocket wasn’t attacking him. He was just scared out of his mind, too scared to realize where his anger was going.

“Rocket!” David shouted, tightening his grip, but his voice didn’t hold the anger it should have. He didn’t fight back, because David understood what this was.

The claws scraped and raked, finding their mark as Rocket fought to get free. He was a tight coil of raw emotion, and he needed to lash out at something—anything. But David held him firm, his muscles tense with the effort, speaking softly, trying to ease the animal back down.

“Shh, it’s okay... it’s me... it’s okay…” David murmured as Rocket continued to twist in his arms, thrashing against the solid chest that held him fast. His heart pounded, the thrum of adrenaline still hot in his veins. He didn’t stop—it wasn’t like a switch flipped, not immediately—but as the seconds stretched on, David’s calming voice worked its way into Rocket’s panic-stricken mind. Slowly, Rocket’s claws started to retract.

The tightness in his body eased a little, but it wasn’t all gone. There was still a wildness in his eyes—still a tremor running through him, and it wasn’t just the physical response. It was a crack in his hardened walls, a softening that came with the realization that David wasn’t letting him go. He wasn’t abandoning him.

“David...?” Rocket whispered, voice shaking, his small chest still heaving with the aftermath of his outburst.

“I’m here,” David said softly, brushing a lock of hair from Rocket’s face. “I’m here. You’re safe. It’s okay.”

And though the words were comforting, Rocket’s heart was still racing, his body still wound tight. The adrenaline wasn’t entirely gone—but he wasn’t alone anymore. That alone made the ache in his chest start to fade.

“Sssh, sssh, sssh,” David murmured soothingly to Rocket, his voice gentle and calming. “It’s okay, Rocket, it’s okay…”

Rocket, his anger giving way to a rush of other emotions – fear, relief, vulnerability – broke down. He curled into David’s arms, burying his face in David’s chest, his small body shaking with sobs.

David held him close, stroking his fur, whispering reassurances. He looked at Quill, his eyes filled with a cold fury. “I warned you, Quill,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.

* * *

The sobs wracking Rocket’s small frame tore at David’s heart. He held the raccoon close, murmuring reassurances, his gaze fixed on Quill, a storm brewing in his eyes. Just then, the rest of the Guardians arrived. Drawn by the commotion, or perhaps by some unspoken sense of unease, they stood at the entrance to the engine room, their expressions a mixture of shock, concern, and barely contained fury.

Groot, his large, gentle eyes filled with distress, let out a series of mournful groans and rustles, extending a tendril towards Rocket in a gesture of comfort.

Gamora, her face a mask of controlled anger, took in the scene. She saw Rocket’s distress, David’s protectiveness, and the guilt – or perhaps defiance – etched on Quill’s face. She didn’t need an explanation. She understood.

Drax, his booming voice cutting through the silence, glared at Quill. “Quill,” he growled, his voice laced with barely suppressed rage, “what have you done?”

Mantis, her empathic abilities allowing her to feel the depth of Rocket’s pain, approached him cautiously. “Rocket,” she said softly, her voice filled with compassion, “it’s alright. We’re here.” She offered a gentle touch, sensing the turmoil within him.

The Guardians formed a protective circle around Rocket and David, their presence a silent condemnation of Quill’s actions. Their body language spoke volumes – their rigid postures, their clenched fists, their narrowed eyes. They were united in their disapproval, their loyalty clearly with Rocket and David.

Quill, facing the united front of his team, shifted uncomfortably. He opened his mouth to speak, to defend himself, but the words died in his throat. He saw the anger in Gamora’s eyes, the quiet fury in Drax’s gaze, the empathy in Mantis’s gentle expression. He saw the protectiveness in Groot’s posture, the unspoken message that he would defend Rocket with his life. And he saw the cold fury in David’s eyes, a look that made him shiver.

He tried to justify himself. “Look,” he stammered, “I didn’t… I didn’t mean…”

But his words fell on deaf ears. The Guardians had seen the truth. They had witnessed Rocket’s breakdown, the raw vulnerability that Quill’s threat had exposed. They had seen David’s unwavering protectiveness, his fierce loyalty. And they knew, without a single word being spoken, that Quill had crossed a line. A line that would have consequences.

* * *

The fallout from Quill's threat was swift and decisive. He remained Captain, technically, but his authority was a hollow shell. The Guardians, their trust in him irrevocably broken, treated him with polite but icy distance. His orders were met with silent skepticism, his attempts at camaraderie with a wall of polite indifference. He was Captain in name only, a figurehead presiding over a team that no longer respected him.

David, quietly and efficiently, stepped into the leadership vacuum. He didn't seek the position, but it fell to him naturally. His methodical approach to missions, his insistence on thorough planning and reliable intelligence, was a breath of fresh air after Quill's impulsive style. He forged a respectful, even cordial, relationship with the Nova Corps, smoothing over past misunderstandings and building bridges where Quill had burned them. He earned the respect of allies and adversaries alike, his quiet competence speaking louder than any boastful pronouncements.

And then there was Rocket. The threat against David had unleashed a vindictive streak in the small raccoon that was both hilarious and terrifying. He declared open season on Quill, and the ship became his personal playground for an epic prank war.

Quill’s boots were inexplicably filled with superglue, trapping him in place until Gamora, with a sigh, had to cut him free. His clothes mysteriously turned vibrant shades of neon, much to Drax’s amusement. His communicator developed a habit of playing embarrassing sound effects at inopportune moments – everything from baby giggles to the sound of a flushing toilet.

Rocket’s pranks escalated in creativity and absurdity. Quill’s bunk was filled with packing peanuts, his shower dispensed ice-cold water, and his favorite snacks were replaced with cleverly disguised replicas made of inedible materials. The ship’s computer developed a sassy AI personality that constantly mocked Quill’s fashion choices. And, perhaps the most ingenious prank of all, Rocket somehow managed to replace all of Quill’s music with polka versions of his favorite 80s rock anthems.

The other Guardians, while not actively participating in the pranks, couldn’t help but find them amusing. They’d often turn a blind eye to Rocket’s antics, offering him subtle encouragement and stifling their laughter when Quill fell victim to another elaborate scheme. It was their small way of showing their support for Rocket and their disapproval of Quill’s past actions.

Quill, meanwhile, was miserable. He was constantly on edge, waiting for the next prank to strike. He tried to retaliate, but Rocket was always one step ahead, anticipating his every move. The prank war became a constant source of humiliation for Quill, a daily reminder of his diminished status and the team’s lack of respect. He was Captain, yes, but he was also the ship’s laughingstock. And deep down, he knew he deserved it.

* * *

Quill, convinced he was finally safe from Rocket’s pranks, opened his closet with a flourish, ready to grab his favorite leather jacket. The sight that greeted him, however, was anything but comforting. Every single piece of clothing in his closet, from his jackets to his shirts to his pants, had been transformed into an eye-searing shade of neon pink. His jaw dropped. “ROOOOCKEEEEEEET!” he bellowed, his voice echoing through the ship.

Nearby, David, hearing the familiar cry, clapped a hand over Rocket’s muzzle. “Oh, ssh, ssh, ssh!” he whispered, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Rocket, barely containing his laughter, nodded quickly, clamping his paws over his mouth to stifle the giggles bubbling up inside him.

They slipped away from the scene of the crime and made their way back to their shared quarters, collapsing onto David’s bed. The moment the door closed behind them, the laughter erupted. David clutched his side, coughing from the force of his mirth. Rocket, tears streaming down his face, nearly choked with laughter.

“Oh my god,” David gasped between coughs, “he thinks it’s you who did that one, but it was me!”

Rocket, still giggling uncontrollably, managed to squeak out, “He has no idea!”

David’s laughter intensified. “He… he doesn’t know… all who’s doing… what prank!!!”

They lost it completely then, their laughter echoing through the room. The image of Quill’s face, the sheer absurdity of the pink explosion, the shared secret – it was all too much. They laughed until their sides ached, until their voices were hoarse, until the tears on their faces were a mix of mirth and exhaustion. It was a moment of pure, unadulterated joy, a testament to their growing friendship and their shared love of a good prank. And in that laughter, a deeper bond was forged, a bond built on trust, understanding, and a shared love of epic, and hilariously pink, pranks.

"He'll never suspect it was you," Rocket said, wiping tears from his eyes.

"Exactly," David replied, grinning. "If he asks, play along, and I'll do the same for you. Each other's backs, bud."

Rocket nodded, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Always."

* * *

Night after night, as sleep claimed them, the small distance between Rocket and David on the bed grew smaller. It was a gradual, almost unconscious shift, a silent acknowledgment of the growing comfort they found in each other’s presence. One night, David awoke to feel the small, furry back pressed against his front. He lay still for a moment, listening to Rocket’s soft, even breathing. Then, almost instinctively, his arm came down, his hand gently resting on Rocket’s head. His fingers and thumb lightly brushed through the coarse fur, a slow, soothing rhythm.

A thin, raspy, reedy sound began to fill the quiet room. It was a weak purr, a hesitant vibration that spoke volumes about Rocket’s contentment. It was a sound David had never heard from him before, a sound that tugged at something deep within him.

As David’s fingers continued their gentle massage, Rocket’s purr grew slightly stronger, more confident. He nestled closer to David, his body relaxing against the warmth of the human’s back.

In that quiet moment, as the soft purr filled the room, Rocket suddenly understood why Terrans had pets. It wasn’t about ownership or control. It was about connection. It was about love. It was about the simple, profound joy of sharing your life with another being, of offering comfort and receiving affection in return. He felt a warmth spread through him, a sense of belonging he hadn’t experienced since… since Lylla.

He’d never be like that, of course. He was Rocket, a genetically modified mercenary, a hardened survivor. He wasn’t some cuddly pet. He was independent, self-sufficient, fiercely his own. And yet… and yet some primal part of him, a part he’d long suppressed, yearned for this connection, this comfort, this unconditional acceptance. He drifted back to sleep, the gentle touch on his head, the warmth of David’s body, and the quiet purr a soothing balm to his soul.

* * *

The beast threatening the cliffside village was big and ugly and mean. Its roars echoed across the valley, shaking the very ground beneath their feet. But the Guardians had it covered. They were a well-oiled machine, a symphony of coordinated chaos.

"Star Lord, HO!" David called, his voice ringing out across the battlefield. Quill, ever the showman, swooped in, darting around the monstrous creature, blasting it with his Quad Blasters. "That's it, harrying, harrying, good man!" David yelled, directing the flow of the fight. Quill was keeping the beast distracted, goading it, its back now conveniently facing their position.

"Positioning!" David shouted, and Quill, understanding the cue, expertly maneuvered the beast, its rage now fully focused on him. "Drax, HO!" David commanded, and with a bloodcurdling battle cry, the mighty, blue-skinned Kylosian Warrior leaped forward, his razor-knives flashing in the sunlight. He plunged the blades deep into the beast's back, eliciting a pained roar that shook the very air. "Nice, Drax!" David crowed, impressed by the warrior's brutal efficiency.

"Rocket, HO!" David called next, and the small, furry engineer hurled a small, metallic sphere into the creature's gaping maw. The beast, driven by instinct, unthinkingly swallowed the explosive. "Timing, timing!" David muttered, watching the beast's movements closely.

"Gamora, HO!" David yelled, and Gamora, with a mighty "KIAI!" launched herself at the creature, her foot connecting with a resounding thud. The force of the kick sent the already wounded beast stumbling backwards… and then, the cliffside crumbled beneath its immense weight. The beast plummeted into the seemingly bottomless abyss below.

"OUTBREAK, OUTBREAK, OUTBREAK, HO!" David shouted, and the Guardians, reacting instantly, booked it out of there, scrambling for cover behind some strategically placed boulders. They turtled up, bracing for the inevitable. David curled protectively around Rocket, shielding him from any potential debris.

BOOOOOM!

Rocket's explosive detonated beautifully, sending a shockwave through the ground and a plume of smoke and dust billowing into the air. When the dust settled, we cautiously made our way back to the broken cliff edge and peered down. The beast was dead. Everywhere. But definitely, unequivocally dead.

"OH YEAH! ALRIGHT!" David roared, channeling his inner Brian Johnson. The rest of the Guardians cheered, their relief palpable. David whooped, and pulled Rocket into a tight hug, the small raccoon nuzzling his nose in return. Mission complete. Another day, another monster vanquished.

Later, in the Milano commons, the air crackled with excitement. The team whooped and cheered, celebrating their victory. Rocket, perched comfortably on David’s shoulder, joined in the revelry, his small frame vibrating with barely contained glee. David grinned, surveying the happy faces of his crew.

“And that,” David announced, raising his voice to be heard over the din, “ladies, gentlemen, and small furry folk—” Rocket let out a loud, delighted guffaw at this, “—is how we run a successful mission.” David paused, letting the cheers subside slightly. “Good intel, good teamwork; we lured the monster away from the village, so no damage to people or property.” David nodded, pleased with their performance. “One dead beast, and our ship coffers full of Units for months!” The cheers erupted again, even louder this time. David felt a surge of pride, not just in himself, but in the team, in the way they’d worked together, in the success they’d achieved. It was a good feeling. A very good feeling.

* * *

Much later, in their shared quarters, the remnants of the day's excitement had faded, leaving a comfortable quiet in their wake. David sat beside Rocket on the bed, a sketchbook and a few pencils resting on my lap. "Rocket," David began gently, "can you tell me about Lylla? What… what did she look like?"

Rocket was quiet for a moment, his gaze distant, lost in the memories of his past. He hesitated, then began to describe her, his voice soft, almost hesitant at first, but gaining strength as he spoke. He described the curve of her snout, the intelligent sparkle in her eyes, the way her fur shimmered in the light.

As he spoke, David began to sketch, his pencil moving quickly across the page, capturing the details he described. David worked in silence, letting him guide me, occasionally asking a clarifying question, but mostly just listening, absorbing his memories.

When he finished, David showed him the sketch. It wasn't perfect, but it was close. It captured the essence of what he'd described, the unique combination of features that made Lylla, Lylla.

"She was a River Otter," David stated gently, "also from Earth, like you."

He pulled up some images on a datapad, beautiful pictures of river otters in their natural habitat. David showed him playful otters swimming in rivers, families grooming each other, their sleek fur glistening in the sunlight. Then, David found some videos of otters kept as pets by some people in Japan. They were clearly loved and well cared for, interacting with their owners, playing with toys, making soft, chirping squeaks.

As Rocket looked at the drawing, then at the pictures of the river otters, then watched the videos, the familiar sounds of their playful squeaks filling the room, his eyes began to well up. He reached out a paw, gently touching the screen, his gaze fixed on one of the otters in the video, its fur remarkably similar to Lylla’s.

“…Lylla…” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. It was a single word, spoken softly, but it carried the weight of all his love, his loss, and his enduring memory.

"I know, buddy. I know..." David said softly, his own eyes welling up. David reached out and gently placed his hand on Rocket’s shoulder, a silent offering of comfort and support. They sat in silence for a moment, the only sound the soft chirping of the otters in the video, the weight of their shared loss hanging heavy in the air. It was a moment of quiet understanding, a testament to the growing bond between them.

"... she lives on in a way," David murmured gently, a little while later, the image of Lylla still fresh in both their minds. "In there," David said, showing him a lovely picture of a river otter, sleek and playful, swimming through clear water. "And there," David said, showing another, this one of a mother otter grooming her pup. "... and there, too," David said, showing a short video clip of another female river otter, her movements graceful and fluid. She looked so much like Lylla.

Then, the video switched, unexpectedly, to a clip of a pet male river otter, lounging on a couch, looking utterly content… and engaging in some… very… personal grooming. Rocket’s eyes widened, then a small snort escaped him. He let out a giggle, then another, and another, until he was laughing hysterically, so hard he nearly dropped the datapad!

“…okay, maybe not there,” David admitted, chuckling along with him. “That male is Captain Aty, and he’s… well, he’s enjoying his free time. But—you know what I mean!” David grinned, nudging him gently. The laughter, though born of a silly and slightly awkward misunderstanding, was a welcome release, a way to chase away the lingering sadness. It was a shared moment of lightness, a reminder that even in grief, there was room for joy, and sometimes, even a little bit of otter self-care.

* * *

The laughter over Captain Aty had subsided, leaving a comfortable quiet in the room. Rocket, still sniffling slightly from the laughter tears, shifted on the bed. He looked at David, a slightly hesitant expression on his face.

"Hey," he mumbled, his voice a little rough, "you think… you could give me a hand with something?"

David looked up from the datapad he was holding, a gentle smile on his face. "Sure, Rocket. What is it?"

"It's… my back," Rocket said, shifting again. "There's this one spot I can't reach in the shower, you know? Between my shoulder blades. It's driving me nuts."

David chuckled softly. "I know the feeling," he said. "Here, let's go."

They went to the bathroom, and Rocket turned his back to David, pointing to the specific spot. David gently soaped up a washcloth and carefully began to scrub the area, his touch light and considerate.

"Is that good?" he asked.

"A little higher," Rocket grunted, then, "Yeah, that's it. Perfect."

The silence between them was comfortable, filled with a quiet understanding. David continued to wash Rocket's back, the small, everyday act creating a sense of intimacy and connection. It was a simple gesture, but it spoke volumes about their growing trust and the quiet comfort they found in each other's presence. It was a small act of care, a tangible expression of their growing bond.

Gradually, David’s assistance in the shower became a regular part of Rocket’s routine, both morning and night. It started with just his back, that one unreachable spot between his shoulder blades, but slowly, David began to help with other areas, places Rocket couldn’t quite reach on his own. He’d gently lather Rocket’s arms, his legs, his flanks, everywhere except, of course, his more… intimate areas.

As David’s hands moved over his fur, gently lathering and rinsing, Rocket would murmur softly, his eyes closed, lost in the sensation. The warm water, the soothing touch, the quiet companionship – it was a small ritual that brought him a surprising amount of comfort.

A small, stubborn voice in the back of his mind would occasionally grumble, “…you don’t need this! You can look after yourself!” It was the voice of his ingrained independence, the voice that had kept him alive and self-sufficient for so long.

But a much louder voice, a voice born of growing trust and affection, would quickly drown it out. “Oh, yes, you flarkin’ do!” it would cry, and Rocket would lean into David’s touch, a soft groan of contentment escaping him. “Mmmmnh…” he’d murmur, pressing back into David’s warmth, the quiet hum of pleasure vibrating through his small frame. It was a simple act, a small moment of vulnerability, but it spoke volumes about the growing bond between them.

"Mmmh..." Nearly asleep standing up, Rocket was guided from the shower with David's gentle support. As his eyes fluttered open, they welled with tears as David began to dry him gently with the softest, fluffiest towel. Of course, his human noticed; he noticed everything.

"Oh, oh, hey..." David murmured, his voice soft with concern. He gently wiped away Rocket's tears with his thumbs, his touch feather-light. "Hey, now, what's all this?"

"...I..." Rocket's voice cracked, then he sucked in a shaky breath. "D'ast it, I... aside from Lylla, I... I ain't ever had someone who... who... lo--cared--for me like you do. Who... who actually gives a flark about me." His voice hitched again. "I... I ain't... I dunno what ta do...!" The final word squeaked out, a testament to his emotional vulnerability.

David leaned forward and gently pecked Rocket’s nose. "Just... keep being you, bud," he soothed, his voice warm and reassuring.

Rocket nodded, a tremulous smile gracing his lips. With his fur now dry, David carefully applied a small amount of oil to it, reconditioning it and giving it a healthy, glossy shine. Then, with the same gentle care, he applied a light coating of oil to the implants on Rocket's back, his touch precise and considerate. The whole process was done in comfortable silence, a shared moment of quiet intimacy and affection.

* * *

Later, while Rocket was engrossed in some intricate engineering work in the engine room, David sat in their shared quarters, the glow of a datapad illuminating his face. He’d pulled up an old Nova Corps scan of Rocket, juxtaposed against a blown-up image of the skeleton of a normal raccoon. He carefully compared the two images, his brow furrowed in concentration. He traced the lines of the implants, the metal rods and struts, sketching them into his notebook alongside the simpler raccoon skeleton.

“…Wait a minute,” he muttered, his voice barely a whisper. “That’s… but that’s not how…” His eyes widened as the gears in his head began to turn. He looked back and forth between the scan and the drawing, the pieces of the puzzle slowly clicking into place. “That’s… oh, gods…”

The realization hit him like a physical blow. He saw the extent of the modifications, the sheer brutality of what had been done to Rocket. He saw the places where bone had been replaced with metal, where muscle had been augmented with artificial fibers. He saw the scars, both visible and implied, that spoke of countless procedures, countless times Rocket had been…

“…taken apart… over and over…” The words were barely audible, choked with emotion. David’s breath hitched, and his eyes began to sting. “Oh, god, no…”

He closed his eyes, the images of Rocket’s modified body burned into his mind. He thought of the small, furry creature curled up beside him in bed, the sarcastic wit, the hidden vulnerability. He thought of the laughter they shared, the quiet moments of connection.

“My friend…” he whispered, his voice cracking. “My little buddy… my friend…” The words tumbled out, a litany of grief and disbelief. He rested his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking. Tears streamed down his face, not just for Rocket, but for the countless others who had suffered similar fates. It was a moment of profound empathy, a deep understanding of the pain and trauma that Rocket had endured. It was a moment that would forever change the way he looked at his friend.

* * *

Rocket, finished with his calibrations, padded quietly back to their shared quarters. He paused at the doorway, a flicker of concern crossing his features. David was hunched over the datapad, his face etched with worry. Rocket could sense the weight of his emotions, a heavy blanket of distress that permeated the room.

He approached David cautiously, his footsteps soft on the floor. "Hey," he said gently, his voice laced with concern. "What's wrong?"

David looked up, his eyes red-rimmed and glistening with unshed tears. He gestured towards the datapad, the images of the Nova Corps scan and the raccoon skeleton still displayed on the screen. "I… I was looking at this," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I was trying to understand…"

Rocket glanced at the images, his expression softening. He knew what David was seeing, the stark reality of the modifications he had endured. He'd lived with it for so long, the memories dulled by time and a carefully cultivated detachment. But seeing David’s reaction, the raw empathy in his eyes, brought it all back with a fresh wave of pain.

“It’s… a lot, ain't it?” Rocket murmured, his voice barely a whisper. He sat down beside David, gently placing a hand on his arm. He didn't try to hide his own emotions; his eyes, too, began to well up.

David nodded, unable to speak. He simply pointed at the screen, tracing the lines of the implants with a trembling finger.

"They… they did a lot," Rocket said quietly. "But… it doesn't define me."

David looked at him, his eyes filled with a mixture of sadness and admiration. "I know," he whispered. "But… it's still… it's still hard to see."

Rocket nodded, understanding. "It's okay to feel that way," he said softly. "It's okay to… to care."

David leaned his head against Rocket's shoulder, a silent acknowledgment of the comfort he offered. "Thank you," he murmured. "Thank you for… for letting me see this. For trusting me."

Rocket gently stroked David’s hair. “We’re… we’re in this together, bud,” he said softly. “Whatever you’re feeling, I’m feeling it too.” They sat in comfortable silence for a while, sharing the weight of the past, the bond between them growing stronger with each shared tear. It wasn't just David comforting Rocket anymore. It was a mutual exchange of comfort, a shared moment of vulnerability and understanding.

Later, as the quiet of their shared quarters settled around them, David broke the comfortable silence. "Rocket," he began, his voice hesitant, "I… I still am sorry about this." He gestured towards the datapad, the image of the scan still visible. "Having this here without telling you about it first. It's… I didn't raid a super-secret lab or anything; it's public record from Nova Corps, the scan they took of you when… when you were…" He trailed off, the unspoken words, "in the Kyln," hanging heavy in the air between them.

He took a deep breath. "I got it because, yeah, I wanted to understand what was done to you," he explained, his voice sincere. "But I also wanted to see… both sides of you, I guess? To understand both your biological side, and your… your cybernetic parts, too." He looked at Rocket, his eyes filled with genuine curiosity and a touch of vulnerability. "I wanted to understand… all of you... to better look after you. Take care of you. My friend." David finished the sentence, his voice soft and sincere.

That night, as they settled into bed, Rocket, without a word, curled up on David's chest. He nestled his head against the warm skin, his ear pressed against David's ribcage. He closed his eyes, listening to the steady rhythm of David's heartbeat, the comforting thump-thump, thump-thump, a constant and reassuring presence. It was a sound that grounded him, a sound that spoke of life, of warmth, of belonging. It was a sound that, in the quiet darkness, made him feel safe.

The next morning, Rocket woke as if for the first time in his life. His awakening was a long, lazy process, punctuated by soft purrs and a gentle drifting in and out of sleep. He’d half-wake to yawn and stretch all four limbs, a luxurious, unhurried extension, before settling back into the warm, musty comfort of the duvet, his head finding its familiar resting place on David’s chest. He’d drift off again, content and undisturbed.

When he finally awoke fully, a small part of him braced for the familiar aches and pains, the dull throb of his implants that usually greeted him each morning. But the pain never came. Instead, he felt only the soft caress of the duvet against his fur, the comforting warmth of David’s body beside him, and the gentle tickle of David’s breath against his nose. His eyes closed slightly, a wordless hum of contentment escaping him as he registered the gentle petting of David’s hand on his headfur.

A long-suppressed, ancient instinct stirred within him. He inched his head forward, just so, until his nose brushed against David’s. He exhaled, sharing his breath with the human in a silent, primal acknowledgment of their bond. Then, with a soft sigh, he nuzzled closer, marking his humie with his own scent, a primal claim of affection and belonging.

As David felt Rocket nuzzle him, a giggle escaped him. "Ah, no, whiskers, tickles, aah!" he exclaimed, his voice filled with laughter.

Rocket chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that could almost be described as semi-evil, and nuzzled some more, his small heart fluttering at the contact.

"Yee, cold, wet nose!" David exclaimed, still half-laughing as he finally opened his hazel eyes, gazing up into Rocket's crimson. The tremors of laughter still rolled through him. "'Morning, bud! You hungry for breakfast? Bacon and Eggs on Toast? Coffee?"

Now Rocket's belly rumbled, a loud, undeniable proclamation of hunger. "Mmh, please..." he replied, licking his lips in anticipation.

"M'yep, sure," David responded, his smile warm. Pulling back the duvet, he carefully sat up, bringing Rocket gently off his chest and settling him back down in the warm nest of the bed. As his human got up to prepare breakfast for them both, Rocket yawned, a huge, tongue-curling stretch that seemed to involve every muscle in his small body. He then rolled gently into the warmth David had left behind, his muzzle curled in a contented smile as he listened to the comforting sounds of David working in the kitchenette.

#rocket raccoon #rocket raccoon fanfiction #friendship #love #hurt/comfort

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whitedragoncoranth · 4 months ago

Text

Second Skin

When Peter Quill stepped into Rocket's quarters aboard the Milano, almost immediately, he knew something was terribly wrong. It was the way Rocket sat, hunched over. Terrified. When the little raccoon raised his head, Quill saw the stains of tears come from his eyes. "What's... what's wrong, Rocket?" he asked.

Quill's eyes widened as Rocket answered, inhaling a gasp as the raccoon answered. "... That's just it. I... I'm not Rocket." The Australian accent, that was new, and at first, Peter Quill thought that Rocket might have been playing a prank. Yet, the way the little enhanced raccoon curled into himself, shivering, terrified - as if he expected the Guardians to flat kill him - made Quill keep listening.

"I..." 'Rocket' sniffled, "... I think... I think Rocket is dead. Raccoons, at least, pet raccoons - taken care of by a human - can maybe live for twenty years. The High Evolutionary didn't make his... 'toys'... to last, you see -Rocket was just a... another *step* on his road to greatness - and that, along with all he's been through... his life was so very short..." Head lowering to paws, David hitched a sob, then mustered his courage to speak again, "Yet... the Galaxy *needs* a 'Rocket Raccoon', so... when his *soul* passed on... *something* restored the body and put me here in his place. In... his body. I... my name is David, and... I am - I was - formerly human. From Earth."

Peter Quill's mind raced as he processed David's words. The implications of what the little raccoon was saying were overwhelming. He had seen Rocket go through hell and back, and now, he was being told that the brash, fiercely independent creature they'd all come to love and rely on was gone... and in his place was a complete stranger.

"But... how is this possible?" Quill stammered, his heart heavy with grief. "You're saying Rocket just... vanished? And you took his body? How does that work?"

David looked up, his eyes glistening with a mix of fear and regret. "I don't fully understand it myself. I was in a... dark place after my life ended. I felt his pain, his hopes, his dreams - all of it poured into me in that moment. I was drawn to this body, to his memories. It’s as if I... inherited him. I know things I should not know, feelings I should not feel."

He wiped away another tear, his small paws trembling. "I’ve seen who he was, Quill. He’s... he was so brave, and so scarred. I can't be who he was. I can’t replace him. I just... want to find my place in this chaotic universe."

Quill felt a pang of agony flush through him—the pain of losing Rocket mixed with a strange sense of hope. This little creature, David, might not be Rocket, but he was alive and needed their support just as much as Rocket had. He crossed the small room, kneeling in front of David, and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, listen to me," Quill said gently, forcing a confident smile. "You might not be Rocket, but you’re still you. And as long as you're here with us, we're going to help you find a way, whatever that looks like. You're part of this team now, whether you like it or not. Just... just take it one day at a time, okay?"

David nodded, the tension in his small body easing just a fraction. "I... I don't want to be a burden. I feel so lost."

"You’re not a burden," Quill assured him. "Rocket was my friend, and I'll stand by you just the same. We all will. It’s going to be different - but that doesn't mean it can't be good, too. We’ve faced impossible odds before, and we’ve always come out on the other side."

David took a deep breath, his eyes filling with gratitude. "Thank you, Quill. I... I’ll try. I just hope I can make sense of this sooner rather than later."

Just then, the door swung open, revealing the familiar figures of Gamora and Drax, followed closely by Groot. The rest of the Guardians had sensed something was amiss and were ready to lend their support.

Gamora's expression softened at the sight of David. "What’s going on here?"

Drax looked a bit confused, his brow furrowing. "Why does this raccoon weep so much? Is he weak?"

Quill chuckled lightly, shaking his head. "No, Drax. This is David. He’s... well, he's taken Rocket's place. We’re trying to help him adjust to... this."

Groot stepped forward, looking inquisitive. "I am Groot?"

David smiled, heartened by the sight of the towering Flora Colossus. "I’m still figuring that out, Groot. But thanks for being here."

Quill felt a wave of warmth wash over him as he looked at his friends—his family. They had faced down the darkness of the universe together, and whatever lay ahead, they would tackle it side by side. David might not be Rocket, but he represented another chance, another opportunity to grow and thrive in ways they never could have imagined.

"Okay, team," Quill said, casting an optimistic glance at all of them. "Let’s show David what being a Guardian is all about. Adventures, comedic misfits, and perhaps some cosmic chaos await us. Ready?"

The Guardians nodded, their spirits lifting in unity as they prepared to welcome David into their fold. Together, they would embrace the unknown and meander through the complexities of their newfound reality, forging a future that would honor Rocket’s legacy while giving a new life the chance to find its own way.

After the team meeting, David felt a swirl of emotions—renewed hope mixed with the lingering shadows of Rocket's memories. He needed to find a quiet moment to confront his own past mistakes, to seek some form of redemption, even though he wasn’t the one who had spoken the hurtful words.

He spotted Drax alone in a secluded corner of the Milano, sharpening his knives with the precision of a warrior who had spent his entire life honing his skills. The soft metallic sound against the blade echoed in the otherwise quiet room, and David's heart pounded in rhythm with it.

"Drax?" he ventured cautiously, stepping forward.

Drax looked up, his expression shifting from fierce concentration to mild surprise. "David," he said, his voice deep and rumbling. "What do you wish to discuss? Are you prepared for battle?"

"No, not a battle," David replied, his voice wavering slightly. "I… I wanted to talk. Just us."

Drax's brow furrowed, but he didn't dismiss him. "Very well. Speak your mind, small creature."

Taking a deep breath, David felt a mixture of anxiety and determination. "I wanted to apologize. For… for what Rocket said to you at the Bar. About your family."

The mention of Drax's family hung heavily in the air, and David could see the muscle in Drax's jaw tighten, his eyes narrowing slightly. But he pressed on, driven by the memories and the guilt that weighed down his heart.

"I remember fragments… flashes of anger and pain. Rocket made jokes—terrible jokes—about your family’s deaths," David continued, lowering his gaze. "It was cruel. I never would have said those things—not in any context. What happened to you was devastating, and you have every right to mourn them."

Drax’s expression hardened, his previous focus now sharpened by the mention of his family's tragedy. "Rocket was a little creature, filled with much rage and little wisdom," Drax said slowly, his voice deepening with each word. "Yet still, my heart wishes he had spoken with more respect."

"I understand that now," David said, his voice breaking slightly with emotion. "I’ve inherited his pain but also his kindness, his loyalty. I’m trying to piece together who I am, and what he meant to everyone. I just wanted you to know I’m sorry for the wrongs he inflicted upon you. You deserved better."

Drax studied David, his expression softening slightly. “You are correct; I deserved better. My family… their loss is a consuming fire, ever burning in my chest. Yet, you came to me with courage, unlike Rocket. I do not judge you for Rocket’s mistakes.”

Relief washed over David as he felt a tiny crack in Drax’s emotional armor. “Thank you, Drax. I—I'm still trying to find my place in this mess, and it helps to know that you’re willing to forgive.”

Drax nodded, that unmistakable warrior's gratitude settling in his eyes. “We are forged in the fires of hardship, David. There is little room for resentment among warriors. We fight, we grieve, but we do not let our pain consume us. Rocket may have hurt me with his words, but I will not allow it to linger in my heart.”

Feeling emboldened by Drax's understanding, David offered a faint smile. “I’ll do my best to honor Rocket’s memory while also being true to myself. Thank you for giving me this chance.”

“Do not thank me; instead, show your own strength in the face of adversity.” Drax responded, the fierceness returning to his voice. "You will grow; you are not the designed plaything of a mad genius. You have choices now."

As David stepped back, a sense of warmth replaced the lingering sorrow. He realized that, although he was not Rocket, he had the chance to create his path among the Guardians. Drax may have been a warrior hardened by loss, but he was also a protector of those who had the courage to stand and fight by his side.

With that small moment of understanding carved out between them, David left the corner feeling lighter in spirit. Perhaps he could find his place here after all—among warriors, misfits, and friends. Together, they would embrace the adventures and challenges ahead, forging new identities in the wake of the past.

In the days following his heartfelt conversation with Drax, David found himself wandering through the Milano, drawn by the daily rhythms of life aboard the ship. The Guardians were a quirky, unpredictable family, and despite the weight of Rocket's memories pressing on him, David sought solace in their camaraderie. It was both comforting and overwhelming.

As he moved through the ship, he stumbled upon Mantis sitting in an unused corner of the cargo bay, surrounded by potted plants she was tending to with gentle care. Her furrowed brow and the way she spoke softly to the blossoms reminded him of the simple kindness Rocket often overlooked. David felt a pull toward her serenity, as well as a hesitant desire for connection.

“Hey, Mantis,” he said, stepping cautiously into her space. “What are you doing?”

“Oh! David!” Mantis exclaimed, her eyes lighting up as she glanced up from the plants. “I’m helping these little ones grow. They need love, just like you.”

David felt his heart flutter at her words—love. The concept was so foreign yet so deeply needed in a world that often echoed with chaos. "I could use some love, actually," he admitted softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Mantis’s expression shifted into one of understanding, empathy radiating from her being. “Come here,” she beckoned gently, patting her lap invitingly. “Let me help you feel safe.”

He hesitated for a moment—memories of guarding his vulnerability flooded back. Rocket had often bristled at any sign of weakness, pushing him to be tough and unyielding. But where Rocket had kept him at arm's length, Mantis seemed to exude an unwavering acceptance. So, gathering his courage, David crawled hesitantly onto her lap, feeling both fragile and free.

Mantis began to stroke his fur, her touch delicate like a soft breeze. “You’re very soft,” she whispered, her voice filled with warmth. “And so beautiful. I can sense your sadness.”

David closed his eyes, leaning into her gentle caress. Something began to crack within him, the vulnerability he had shielded pushing to the surface. “I miss him,” he confessed, a quiver escaping his throat. “I thought I could just be ‘Rocket’ and take on his strength, but… I can’t, Mantis. I’m just… me. And I’m scared.”

“It is okay to be scared,” she said, soothingly. “We all feel lost sometimes, even your friends. There is strength in accepting who you are.”

David breathed in deeply, the warmth and understanding flooding him, and it became too much to bear. He felt the weight of his emotions overwhelm him at last, and he let himself break down. Soft whimpers turned into gentle sobs as he melted into Mantis's lap, curling up tighter against her like a tender ball of fur.

As the sound of his distress filled the cargo bay, Mantis continued to cradle him with endless compassion, whispering soft comforts into his ears. “You are not alone, David. You have us. You have me. You are not just an echo of Rocket; you are a new dawn.”

He purred instinctively, a soft vibration emanating from his chest as he nestled into her embrace. It was a sound he had never thought to make, a soft keening that came from deep within—a mark of tenderness and release. The warmth radiating from her, the affectionate words, allowed him to let go of the tension he had carried for so long.

In that moment, David found solace in Mantis's compassion, feeling a flicker of hope ignite within the shadows. He recognized that he didn’t have to be Rocket’s echo; he could be David—an individual forged through pain but filled with the potential for new beginnings. There was love here, a space to belong, and perhaps, just perhaps, he could learn to embrace it.

* * *

David found himself in the cockpit of the Milano, the hum of the ship’s engines providing a steady backdrop to the whirlwind of thoughts in his mind. The ship was a complex being of circuits and machinery, and each part seemed to whisper secrets he didn’t yet understand. He sat in the pilot’s chair, his hands restlessly fiddling with the controls as he took in the vibrant chaos of blinking lights and buttons.

It was then that Peter Quill stepped in, a grin lighting his face as he caught sight of David. “Hey, little buddy! How’s it going up here? Gonna steal my job already?”

David smiled weakly but felt a pang deep in his chest. “Actually, about that…” He hesitated, his voice softening. “I’m sorry, Quill. Though I’m in his body... I’m not Rocket. I don’t have his knowledge or mechanical skills. You’ll… you’ll need to teach me at least the basics of ship repair—if you know how—so I can do emergency fixes. The most critical repairs.”

Quill’s playful demeanor flickered, replaced with understanding. “Hey, don’t sweat it. I’m not asking you to be Rocket 2.0 or anything.” He crossed his arms, leaning against the cockpit doorframe. “We all know he was something special. But that doesn’t mean you don’t have your own strengths to bring to the table.”

David nodded but couldn’t shake the feeling of inadequacy. “I’ll be… a little useless for a while. When I was still human, the most I ever fixed was computers back on Earth. It was just replacing broken hardware when it failed. This ship is… it’s alive, Quill. And I don't want to mess anything up.”

A grin broke through Quill's serious exterior as he stepped closer. “Believe it or not, I felt the same way when I first piloted the Milano. Trust me, the first time I tried fixing a faulty engine, I nearly blew the whole ship up! But you know what? That’s how you learn. You’ll figure it out as you go.”

“Just… think of your brain as a kind of schematic,” Quill suggested, gesturing toward the control panel. “Each system has its own functions and needs. I can walk you through what you need to know. We’ll get through it together. With your background in tech, you might even have an edge. You just need to apply it to the ship’s quirks.”

David looked up, a flicker of hope igniting within him. “Really? You think so?”

“Absolutely,” Quill said with confidence. “It’s just a different beast, that’s all. Okay, so do you see that panel over there?” He pointed toward a section of the dashboard filled with various buttons and indicators. “Let’s start with the basics. You got this.”

As Quill began explaining the functions of the ship’s various systems, David absorbed the information with a surprising sense of eagerness, fueled by the determination to protect his newfound family.

Quill was patient, guiding him through simple concepts at first. They went over fuel levels and navigation systems, followed by emergency protocols that were absolutely critical during space travel. David found himself less focused on his inadequacies and more captivated by the intricate dance of machinery and technology.

When a particularly complex explanation made David’s mind swim, Quill chuckled, clapping him on the back. “Don’t worry; it takes time. It’s all about getting your hands dirty—a good few failed attempts too. Who knows? You might surprise yourself!”

As they continued, feeling a budding camaraderie between teacher and student, David began to feel the familiar pang of anxiety ease. He realized that, while he may be learning in Rocket’s body, he was not bound by the past. With Quill’s guidance, he could carve out his own space among the Guardians, bridging the gap between who Rocket had been and who he could choose to become.

Taking a deep breath, David replied with a newfound strength, “Okay, then. Let’s do this. Teach me everything.”

* * *

Quill, who had grown accustomed to Rocket's frenetic pace, found himself marvelling at David's calm and measured approach. At first, he'd tried to hurry David along, chiding him for being too slow or too fussy. But as the days passed, Quill began to realize that David's conservative approach was actually the better part of valor. The ship was being restored to its former glory, not just patched together with duct tape and prayers.

Quill would often find David hunched over a flickering holographic display, the Milano's Service Manual glowing with technical diagrams and schematics. "What's that you're always reading, buddy?" Quill asked one day, peering over David's shoulder. "This?" David replied, tapping the screen with a paw. "It's the ship's Service Manual. It's… surprisingly comprehensive." Quill chuckled. "Never even knew that existed. Rocket probably used it as a coaster." David smiled faintly. "It's been invaluable. It's allowed me to pinpoint several critical issues that Rocket's… improvisations… might have overlooked."

David's meticulous approach to repairing the Milano stood in stark contrast to Rocket's haphazard methods. Where Rocket would have torn the ship apart, cursing loudly as he rummaged for the right parts, David would methodically diagnose the issue, consulting the Service Manual with a reverence that bordered on obsession. He'd carefully document each step, triple-checking his work to ensure everything was in order.

Quill watched with a mixture of amusement and awe as David carefully removed a particularly tricky modification, one that Rocket had installed without so much as a second thought. "You know, David, Rocket would have blown a fuse over that mod," Quill said, shaking his head. "It's a wonder the ship didn't implode on him. That bypass he rigged was drawing power directly from the auxiliary reactor. One spark and boom!" David carefully placed the removed component on a nearby tray, then wiped his brow with the back of his paw. "Yeah, well, it very nearly did! You're not supposed to draw current directly from the ship's reactor; it's raw, unfiltered, and at the maximum voltage and amps all the time. It's supposed to be put through inverters, transformers, to step it up or down, or convert it to what you need. Jesus..."

David looked up from the manual, his expression serious. 'I'm glad I can fix these things,' he said, 'but I also want to make sure we're not putting the crew in harm's way. That's why I always prioritize non-critical fixes first. It's better to wait and do it right, rather than rush into something that might cause an accident.' I hope I'm doing a good job. I know I'm not Rocket, but I am trying my best. Quill nodded, a thoughtful expression on his face. 'You know, David, that's a good way to look at it. We've had enough close calls to last a lifetime. It's refreshing to have someone who's actually thinking about safety for a change.'

As the months passed, the Milano began to look and feel like new. The ship's systems were humming along smoothly, the engines hummed a gentle, consistent tune, a stark contrast to the previous, unpredictable roars and the crew was growing accustomed to the gentle thrum. David's meticulous approach had become the new standard, and Rocket's haphazard methods were slowly being forgotten.

And yet, as the ship sailed through the cosmos, David's reliance on the Service Manual became more than just a quirk. It was a symbol of his dedication to doing things right, even when the pressure was on. He'd become the ship's resident expert, the go-to guy for all things mechanical. And as he pored over the manual, his eyes scanning the pages with a deep focus, the soft glow of the manuals screen illuminating David's focused expression, Quill couldn't help but wonder what other secrets lay hidden within the ship's systems, waiting to be discovered.

* * *

David took a moment to savor a small victory as he flipped the breaker back on, a satisfying click echoing softly in the otherwise quiet cockpit. The familiar thrum of the Milano filled the air once more, and he could already see the lights on the control panel glowing back to life. Another small step. One problem solved, many more to go. The soft glow of the emergency lighting, now supplemented by the returning control panel lights, cast long shadows across the cockpit. But his brow furrowed in concentration as he returned to his work, the Service Manual open before him and wires sprawled out like a puzzle yet to be solved.

“Alright, Breaker T-27…” he muttered, skimming through the blueprints spread out in front of him, the faint scent of ozone tickling his nose, committed to resolving the chaos that Rocket had created. He traced a glowing circuit line with his finger. Each circuit was a vein in the ship’s body, and he was determined to ensure everything was functioning properly — even if it took time.

“Hey, you’re not gonna burn down the kitchen while I’m at it, right?” Quill called from across the ship, the sound of his footsteps echoing as he walked towards the kitchen, his tone playful but laced with a hint of concern. The kitchen, after all, was the heart of their shared meals and camaraderie. "Not if you stay out of it!" David laughed, not looking up from his work. "I'm trying to fix a mess, not create one!"

"I just have to prioritize what goes where and prevent overloads. There's a reason that things aren't working properly.” He rifled through his notes, the faint hum of the circuits filling the air, identifying which circuits could be improved upon. His handwriting was neat and orderly, contrasting sharply with Rocket’s chaotic lifestyle. “We need to keep high-draw appliances like the oven and microwave on their own circuits — and that Commons lighting definitely shouldn’t be sharing with the kitchen. Reason being: if something goes wrong with the lighting in the Commons, kitchen lights go down as well.”

Quill’s voice sounded a little more serious as he responded, “You sure that’s safe, though? I mean, I get it—having separate circuits is better for the ship, but… can we even wire things that way without risking a meltdown? Rocket’s not exactly here to show you how.”

David’s resolve only strengthened at Quill’s query. “It’ll be fine! This isn’t exactly ‘rocket’ science, pardon the pun — well, okay, maybe it is, but you know what I mean! Look here, see the blank spaces in the electrical panel? That's where you can add extra breakers, which means more wiring can be added safely. Just need to add a couple of new, or new old stock breakers, then I add new wiring to those for some sections so that we can redistribute the load properly. The wiring may be old, or new old stock if I can find it, but if I follow the manual and correct the setup, we’ll be safe.”

He noticed a few other breakers labeled with notes that Rocket had scrawled, indicating that they had been bypassed or modified for those very issues. “I’ll make sure to document everything for future reference,” he added, scribbling down enhancements and notes for potential repairs. “Just don't blow us up in the process, alright?” Quill laughed, yet there was a tinge of anxiety in his voice that David could detect.

“Keep the kitchen spices away from the stove, and we’ll be all good!” David laughed back. He couldn’t help but smile at the light camaraderie between them. It felt good to be working as part of a team — something he hadn’t felt in quite a long time.

With purpose, he resumed mapping out the electrical network, checking each line against the schematic. The faint hum of the circuits filled the air. It's like learning a new language. A language of wires and currents, of systems and schematics. He made mental notes of which cables were routed incorrectly, noting potential improvements. Each discovery brought him closer to understanding the Milano not just as a ship but as a living, breathing entity that required care and attention.

As he traced the pathways of the wiring, he couldn’t shake the feeling that these fixes were more than just mechanical tasks — they were a connection to the life he now found himself in, a contribution to the shared journey of the Guardians. Every circuit he repaired meant a little more stability for the team as they navigated the wilds of space together.

“Okay, now... Breaker T-29, what does that power? I've got my work cut out for me,” David murmured to himself, a determined smile on his face as he continued down the path of understanding and improvement. “Let’s get to it.”

David’s transformation was more than just physical; it was a blossoming of confidence and identity. No longer overshadowed by Rocket’s brash presence, he had found his own space within the Guardians. The ship's mechanic overalls fit him comfortably, representing a newfound ownership of his role. With every turn of a wrench or adjustment to a circuit, he felt more deeply connected to the Milano — and, by extension, to the crew who called her home.

When the Guardians found themselves on solid ground, David didn’t just retreat to the shadows; he thrived in the moments he could. With his sized acoustic guitar slung over his shoulder, he ventured out to the bustling streets and marketplaces of whatever planet they were visiting. His music, a blend of folk-inspired melodies and lyrics about finding home, resonated with the crowds. A young alien, with large, curious eyes, stopped, and listened with rapt attention, a wide smile spreading across her face. The rhythmic cheer of the crowd and the vibrant energy of strangers was intoxicating. He found joy in sharing his music — a blend of earnest lyrics and gentle melodies that resonated with those who paused to listen.

“Daddy's gonna make you a great big star // Do anything he can // Daddy's gonna make you a great big star // He says everybody shines tonight!” His voice carried through the air, clear and soothing, laced with a warmth that invited people to join him in his little corner of the universe.

Clapping and laughter filled the space around him, with onlookers swaying to the beat, connecting with the heartfelt message behind his words. The crowd grew as he played, drawn in by the contrast of his gentle demeanor and the infectious joy of the song. Children danced in delight, parents beamed with pride, and a few even began to hum along.

For David, busking was not just about earning a few extra units; it was an avenue for self-expression, a way to communicate without the weight of words. Through his music, he could convey emotions he sometimes struggled to vocalize in everyday interactions. With each note he struck, he felt barriers dissolve. Strangers became friends, and for those few moments, he felt less like the quiet outsider and more like someone who mattered.

Quill, Groot, Drax, and Gamora often watched from a distance, their expressions ranging from amusement to admiration. They had all come to appreciate David’s talent, each of them cheering him on in their own way. Quill, with his roguish charm, would often draw a small crowd, engaging them with stories of daring escapades and near-misses to accompany David’s performances. Drax, with his blunt humor, would sometimes contribute the occasional off-the-wall comment that sent the audience into fits of laughter, becoming a beloved part of the show.

One night, after David had finished a set, a small group surrounded him, eagerly tossing units into the guitar case that sat open on the ground. Their smiles were warm and genuine, and David felt a flutter in his chest — a sensation he associated more closely with Rocket’s reckless bravado than his own gentle nature.

“Thank you! Thank you all!” David called out, his voice a mix of bashfulness and gratitude. “I hope you enjoyed it!”

As the crowd began to disperse, one little girl approached him, her eyes wide with excitement. “You’re so good! Can you play another song? Please?”

David couldn’t resist the infectious enthusiasm. “Alright, just one more,” he said, smiling down at her.

As he began to strum another tune, he noticed Quill stepping forward, leaning against a nearby post with a proud grin. There was a flicker of admiration in his eyes, a silent acknowledgment of how far David had come. In that moment, David understood that he wasn’t just fixing ship systems but also finding his place in a galaxy full of chaos and wonder.

“Yep, that’s my boy!” Quill shouted, eliciting a chuckle from the crowd and an appreciative roll of David's eyes.

And there, under the twinkling lights and with the sound of laughter surrounding him, David realized that he had not only found a family among the Guardians but a way to shine—one note at a time.

* * *

The Nova Corps officers were assembled in a small conference room adorned with the insignia of their organization — sleek, blue and gold banners hanging prominently as symbols of order and justice. The digital clock on the wall ticked silently, each second adding to the tension in the room. They exchanged uneasy glances, their expressions a mixture of confusion and curiosity as they awaited the arrival of the notorious Rocket Raccoon. He was known throughout the galaxy for his cunning, pranks, and frequent run-ins with the law. However, today, the officers were in for an unexpected surprise.

As the door to the conference room swung open, they prepared for the usual whirlwind of sarcasm and bravado. Instead, standing before them was David — an unfamiliar face wearing Rocket’s form. The hum of the fluorescent lights seemed to amplify the sudden silence. David stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his expression thoughtful. His demeanor was calm, almost serene, a stark contrast to the raucous energy they had come to associate with the little creature.

“Rocket?” one of the officers began, his voice laced with a familiar mix of wariness and exasperation. “What’s this about? You know you’re not supposed to be—” He trailed off, his brow furrowing as he noted the subtle differences in posture and gaze. Yet, it was undeniably Rocket’s form.

Then, David spoke, his voice a smooth, distinctly Australian drawl. “Gentlemen,” he began, the word sounding utterly foreign coming from that body. “I understand this may be… disconcerting. But the Rocket you knew… he’s gone. His soul, his essence, whatever you wish to call it, is no more. My name is David. And I am now… inhabiting... what once was... his body.”

The room fell into a stunned silence. The officers exchanged bewildered glances, their expressions a mix of disbelief and dawning comprehension. David stood tall, his posture conveying a sense of calm authority. David took a steadying breath, feeling the weight of the numerous eyes upon him. "I am here to speak with you on a matter of importance," he continued, his voice soft yet steady. The officers exchanged puzzled looks, their eyes wide with disbelief. “What do you mean?” another one asked cautiously, adjusting his stance as he leaned towards David. The air in the room seemed to thicken with unspoken questions. "I wish to work off some of Rocket’s debts,” David stated. "If… you would have me serve some of his prison sentences, then so be it. If you ask it of me, I will perish in the Kyln, or whatever prison you put me in. But… I… would prefer community service. Honest work.

The bafflement in the room was palpable. They had expected Rocket’s usual antics — a dramatic entrance, a few snarky comments, perhaps even some wild requests. Instead, they were met with a surprisingly earnest proposition.

One officer, a seasoned veteran with graying hair and a weathered face, leaned forward, skeptical yet intrigued. “And why should we consider that? What guarantee do we have that you won’t just skip out the moment you get the chance?”

David nodded, aware of the doubt in their eyes. “Guarantee? Here is your guarantee: I am not Rocket. If you assign me work, I will do it. I will not 'skip out.' I am not him, and I am here to right some wrongs. I am not bound to the chaos he loved so much; in fact, I despise it! I genuinely want to help.”

The officers were silent, caught off guard by the sincerity in David’s tone. It was not typical for someone like Rocket to express such a desire for redemption. The room was thick with contemplation as they weighed the merits of David’s proposal.

“Let’s say we entertain this idea,” the veteran officer continued, crossing his arms. “What kind of community service would you be willing to commit to?”

David leaned forward, encouraged by the prospect of being taken seriously. “I can assist with repairs in the fleet, help on humanitarian missions, or offer support in crisis response. I’m willing to put in the time and effort to ensure we can rebuild some trust between the Guardians and the Nova Corps.”

There was a pause, and then the officer nodded slowly. “It’s unconventional, but I’ll admit, it’s not unheard of for individuals looking for redemption. If you can keep your word, you might just make a case for yourself.”

“I am not Rocket,” David stated again. “All I ask is a chance to prove it.”

After a tense moment, the officers glanced at one another before the veteran officer finally spoke. “Alright. We'll put you on an initial probation period, and you can start working with our repair teams. But be warned — if you stray from this path, you’ll face the consequences.”

A wave of relief washed over David. “I will not stray. I will not let you down,” he promised earnestly.

As David exited the conference room, he felt a surge of hope. It was a small victory, but it was a significant step toward his own identity. As he embraced this new chapter, he also began to understand that he wasn't just wearing Rocket’s skin; he was forging a new path — one where he could redefine not only his own life but also the perception of the Guardians in the eyes of the universe.

Along with that opportunity, a flicker of fear and excitement coursed through him. What awaited him in the days to come? He was ready to confront it all — one small service at a time.

* * *

The dimly lit, smoke-filled room was a familiar haunt for the who's who of the galaxy's underworld. A place where allegiances were forged and broken, where deals were made and debts were collected. It was here, in this unassuming establishment, that David found himself face to face with some of the most notorious crime lords in the galaxy.

As he entered, the room fell silent. Eyes narrowed, and hands instinctively went to the hilts of blasters or the grips of knives. They were expecting Rocket, the infamous troublemaker, the one who had a penchant for causing chaos and leaving a trail of destruction in his wake. But as they looked into David's eyes, they saw something unexpected - kindness, empathy, and a deep sense of sincerity.

One of the crime lords, a burly man with a scar above his left eyebrow, sneered at David. "So, you're Rocket, huh? I've got a few bones to pick with you, raccoon."

David stood his ground, his voice calm and gentle. "I'm not Rocket, not really. I'm... someone else. And I'm here to make things right."

The room erupted into a mixture of laughter and skepticism. "Save it, pal," another crime lord chimed in. "We've heard it all before. You're just trying to spin a tale to get out of paying your debts."

But David didn't flinch. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small pouch filled with credits. "I've come to pay off some old debts. Ones that Rocket accumulated over the years."

The room fell silent once more as David began to hand out credits to the various crime lords, each one stamped with the amount owed. The gesture was met with a mixture of shock and confusion.

One of the crime lords, a woman with a cold, calculating gaze, looked at David with a hint of curiosity. "Why are you doing this? You don't have to."

David smiled softly. "Because it's the right thing to do. I want to make amends for the harm that Rocket caused. And I want to start fresh, to show that there's more to me than just a bad reputation."

As the crime lords took their credits, they couldn't help but look at David with newfound respect. They had never seen anyone, especially not Rocket, show such humility and kindness. It was as if they were looking at a completely different person.

The burly man with the scar spoke up, his voice a little softer now. "You know, I never thought I'd say this to a raccoon, but... thanks. You're a stand-up guy, even if you are a little weird."

The room erupted into a mixture of chuckles and nods of agreement. For the first time in a long time, the crime lords saw a glimmer of hope, a chance to start anew, to leave the past behind.

As David left the establishment, he felt a sense of pride and accomplishment. He had taken the first steps towards redeeming Rocket's reputation, towards showing the galaxy that there was more to him than just a bad name.

And as he walked away from the dimly lit room, he couldn't help but wonder what other surprises the universe had in store for him. He was no longer just a man in Rocket's body; he was a force for change, a beacon of hope in a galaxy filled with darkness and uncertainty.

The crime lords, meanwhile, couldn't stop talking about the little raccoon who had given them back their money. They spoke of him in hushed tones, as if he were a mythical creature, a hero from a distant land.

"Who is this guy?" one of them asked, shaking his head in wonder.

"I don't know," another replied, "but I think we just met the most unlikely hero in the galaxy."

* * *

Otta Spice leaned back in her chair, the smooth, cold surface of the armrest of her throne pressed against her skin, the dim light of her throne room casting soft shadows across her features. The last few weeks played through her mind like a reel of film, each moment with David—the embodiment of Rocket Raccoon—etched into her memory. She had been expecting the brash, impulsive creature known for his antics and selfish tendencies. Instead, she had encountered a gentle soul who genuinely seemed to care.

It was hard to reconcile the initial expectation of wild chaos with the tenderness David had shown her. She remembered a conversation where he had listened with rapt attention as she spoke of her childhood dreams, a rare moment of vulnerability in her life. Their conversations had started off tentative, but quickly deepened as they shared stories of their lives, their dreams, and their aspirations. He’d listened attentively, something she had rarely experienced from those in her line of work. And when he had apologized for Rocket’s past indiscretions, his voice had held an earnestness that touched her heart.

One evening, in a rare moment of vulnerability, Otta had found herself leaning against him, her heart exposed like never before. The weight of her past relationships—the flings that had come and gone, leaving her feeling more like an object than a partner—had washed over her like a flood. Yet here was David, holding her as if she were fragile, as if she were the most precious thing in the universe. He had regarded her not with desire but with respect, with kindness, and that had made all the difference.

Tears welled in her eyes as she recalled the moment—his concern palpable as he brushed a paw gently through her fur, his own eyes misty. “It’s okay, Otta,” he’d whispered softly, his voice a gentle balm against her woes. “You deserve to be treated like you mean something. You’re not a trophy; you’re incredible.”

With a deep, shuddering breath, she closed her eyes, feeling the emotions coursing through her. This was new territory for Otta Spice—real feelings that she couldn’t deny. The walls she had built around her heart were slowly crumbling, and she was terrified yet exhilarated by the prospect of falling for someone like David. Someone who didn’t fit the mold of what she had expected.

But could she trust him? Could she trust that this wasn’t just another facade, another trick? The weight of her past relationships pressed down on her, but with each thought of David, the heaviness lightened ever so slightly. He was different, and she wanted to believe in that difference.

As she wiped away a tear, gathering herself, Otta took a moment to reflect. What if this was the beginning of something beautiful? Something that hadn’t been woven into her fragmented history of fast-paced flings and shallow connections? David had shown her a glimpse of what it might mean to be truly seen, and the thought filled her heart with a warmth she hadn’t known was possible.

It was time to take a leap of faith, to be honest with herself and with him. When they next crossed paths, she would express her feelings, no matter how vulnerable it made her feel. There was a connection she couldn’t ignore, a profound bond that had formed in the quiet moments shared, and she needed to explore it further.

Otta wiped her eyes and took a deep breath. She was ready to embrace whatever came next, whether it led to heartache or happiness. After all, sometimes the greatest risks yielded the most beautiful outcomes.

As she prepared to leave her throne room, she felt a surge of determination. It was time to step into the unknown, to seek out David, and to discover what lay beyond the realization that she was, particularly in her heart, falling for him.

* * *

The room felt electric with a current that neither Otta nor David could have ever anticipated. When Otta had whispered her confession, those raw, unguarded words had slipped from her lips, spilling out as tears welled in her eyes. "I... I love you." The words hung in the air like a delicate promise.

She had held her breath, bracing herself for his response, never expecting what would come next. David’s eyes widened in disbelief, misting over as emotion washed over him. The sight of a hardened soul—dubbed a reckless troublemaker by so many—collapsing into vulnerability was both shocking and heartwarming. He broke down, a mixture of laughter and sobs escaping him as he choked out, “Thank you,” followed by a squeaky, earnest, “I love you too!”

In that moment, the gravity of their shared feelings enveloped them like a warm embrace. Otta’s heart soared even as tears streaked down her cheeks. His smile, though tinged with sorrow, radiated pure joy. The juxtaposition of those emotions enveloped them in a bubble of authenticity, washing away the pain of their pasts.

David, with unexpected tenderness, leaned in, his little raccoon nose brushing against her cheek in a gesture that was both delicate and sincere. Otta felt as if her heart might burst from the affection he conveyed so openly. It was as if he recognized the fragility of the moment, how precious it was, and went out of his way to treat it—and her—with the utmost care.

He pressed a gentle kiss against her brow, and in that soft exchange, they both found solace. Their foreheads touched, their breaths mingling in a slow, calming rhythm as they looked into one another's eyes. In the silence that followed, they silently promised to cherish each other, to navigate the complexities of the world together.

Time seemed to stretch as they held each other tightly, their bodies entwined in a comforting cocoon. Both cried, their tears mingling with laughter, the release of unspoken fears giving way to hope. Otta felt her heart heaviness from the past shift into something brighter. With David, she could see the future unfolding like a beautiful tapestry—a life filled with warmth and love, unmarred by the emptiness she had once known.

In that intimate moment, surrounded by shared pain and newfound love, Otta realized that they were daring to rewrite their stories. No longer would they allow their pasts to define them; instead, they would forge ahead, paw in paw, hearts open to whatever the universe had in store.

As they slowly pulled away to gaze at each other, hearts still pounding, Otta saw the reflection of her own feelings mirrored in David’s eyes. They were no longer mere shadows of the creatures they once were—here stood two souls, intertwined in the most profound of connections, united by love and the promise of tomorrow.

"Together, right?" Otta whispered, her voice barely above a breath, vulnerability lacing her words.

"Always," David replied, his voice a gentle murmur. “We’ll face whatever comes next—together.”

And with those words, they sealed their pact, a steadfast bond formed in love, laughter, and the delicate courage to be truly seen. In that shared vulnerability, they found a home in each other, ready to write the next chapter of their lives as partners, not just in romance, but as allies against the chaos of the galaxy.

* * *

The memory cascaded over Otta like a soft wave, bringing with it both warmth and the bittersweet sting of nostalgia. Although she sat in the quiet of her throneroom, she could vividly recall that bright day when she and David had taken to the street, the bustling energy of the market ringing in their ears, filled with laughter and voices. The Guardians had been on shore leave, and for just that moment, they carved out space for themselves—a fleeting pocket of joy amid the chaos of their lives.

David had suggested they busk together, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "C'mon, Otta! Just a little music and fun! We can do this!" He carried his battered guitar, its wood worn smooth from years of use, but to him, it was a treasure—a gateway to express his feelings. She couldn’t resist his enthusiasm, and she found herself agreeing, a grin spreading across her face.

As they began to perform, David chose a song that resonated deeply within her heart. “Look at this face // I know the years are showing // Look at this life // I still don't know where it's going…” Otta tried to sing along, her voice trembling not from nerves but from the weight of the emotions that washed over her in waves. The lyrics seemed written especially for them, a reflection of their shared vulnerability.

When it was her turn to join in, she felt the lyrics catch in her throat. The swell of love she felt for him was so intense it took her by surprise, nearly choking her with its potency. “I don’t know much // But I know I love you // And that may be // All I need to know.” Those words echoed in the air, but they were more than just a melody; they were a confession, a promise, and a truth she’d never voiced so openly before. In that moment, she was stumbling through her lines, her voice hitching as tears streamed down her cheeks, nosing into the raw honesty of the lyrics.

Caught in the beauty of the moment, Otta could see the emotion mirrored in David's eyes, the softness that transformed his playful façade into something deeper, something that invited her to trust and believe. He’d grinned through her tears, and his voice had only grown gentler. Each note flowed effortlessly between them, a bridge of connection that drew them closer.

The crowd had gathered, captivated by the raw sincerity of their performance. The warmth of the sun enveloped them, and for just a moment, they were suspended in their own world—a universe apart from the chaos and challenges that awaited them. As the last notes hung in the air, Otta felt a lightness in her heart, knowing she had shared something profound with David.

When they finished, the applause from the small crowd felt like an echo of their own hearts—a celebration not just of their music, but of their love. She had rushed into his arms, laughter mingled with tears, feeling utterly whole in a way she had not anticipated. As they stood there, embraced in the raucous energy of applause and shouts of acclaim, Otta realized she had never known such open, earnest love before. David's kindness and spirit had transformed her, had opened her eyes to the beauty that could exist if one dared to let their guard down.

Now, in quiet reflection, she held that memory in her heart as a sacred moment—the day their souls truly intertwined through the magic of a simple song. With a soft sigh, Otta wiped away lingering tears and smiled. She knew that the love they had found wasn’t just a fleeting moment; it was a foundation built on honesty, vulnerability, and a shared journey that lay ahead. And she felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude knowing that David would be there with her every step of the way.

* * *

The memory of Beaverton's rage still haunted Otta. The way his eyes had narrowed, the snarl that twisted his usually placid features – it was a transformation that chilled her to the bone. Then came the gunshot, the sickening thud of his body hitting the ground, and the horrifying realization of what he'd almost… done to her.

But it wasn't just about her; it was about the look in Beaverton's eyes, a look that had made David do something he never thought he'd have to do. The way he'd whispered those words, "I'm sorry," and fallen to his knees, a part of her heart went out to him. She'd seen the remorse in his eyes, the pain and regret that had taken hold of him like a vice.

David had always been a gentle soul, one who avoided confrontation and violence at all costs. But in that moment, he'd been faced with a choice: let Beaverton take her life, or take his own life to stop him. The thought sent a chill down her spine. David had no choice; he'd done what he had to do to protect her.

As she looked back, Otta realized that Beaverton's actions had changed her, too. They'd made her see David in a new light, as a protector and a hero. She'd always known he was strong and brave, but that moment had shown her a depth of character she'd never seen before. It was a reminder that sometimes, the people we love are capable of things we never thought they were capable of.

The memory of that day still lingered, but it was no longer just a painful reminder; it was a testament to the depth of their love and the sacrifices they were willing to make for each other. Otta felt a surge of love and admiration for David, for the man he was and the man he'd become. He was no longer just a partner; he was her rock, her protector, and her hero.

As she looked at him, she knew that she'd never be able to repay him for what he'd done for her. But she vowed to be there for him, to support him through the hard times, and to be his rock when he needed it most. The memory of that day would always be a reminder of their love and the sacrifices they made for each other.

#not-quite-rocket-raccoon #human-as-rocket #guardians of the galaxy #otta spice #hurt/comfort #love

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